—— 


BIRDS  OF  PREY 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBHAKY.  LOS  ANGELES 


'I  couldn't  stand  it,  Burt." 


BIRDS  OF  PREY 

BEING 

Pages  from  the  Book  of  Broadway 


BY 


GEORGE  BRONSON-HOWARD 

AUTHOR  01 

"  GOD'S  MAN,"  "  SLAVES  OF  THE  LAMP,"  etc. 


Illustrations  by 
WALLACE  MORGAN 


NEW  YORK 
W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
GEORGE  BRONSON-HOWARD 


BY  GEORGE  BRONSON-HOWARD 

NOVELS 

GOD'S  MAM 
BIRDS  OF  PREY 

ROMANCES 

SLAVES  OF  THE  LAMP 
AN  ENEMY  TO  SOCIETY 
SCARS  ON  THE  SOUTHERN  SEAS 
NORROY,  DIPLOMATIC  AGENT 

PLAYS 

THE  RED  LIGHT  OF  MARS 

THE  ONLY  LAW 

SNOBS 

A  NIGHT  IN  SUBTERRANEA 

LIBRETTOS 

THE  PASSING  SHOW  OF  1912 
BROADWAY  TO  PARIS 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  fc  CO. 

BOOK   MANUFACTURERS. 

BROOKLYN,   N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 


I.  THE  PEACOCK'S  PROGRESS   ......  4 

II.  THE  TRAINING  OP  THE  HAWK    .....  12 

III.  CUCKOOS  AN-)  CUCKOLDS      ......  17 

IV.  THE  OWLS       .........  24 

V.  THE  NEST  OF  THE  NIGHT-BIRDS        ....  30 

VI.  THE  HAWK  AT  HOME    .......  36 

VII.  BLACKGUARDS  AND  BLACKMAIL   .....  43 

VIII.  THE  HAWK  BECOMES  A  HUMMING-BIRD    .       .       -55 

IX.  AN  EAGLE  INTERVENES        ......  63 

X.  AND  PLANS  TO  PLUCK  A  PEACOCK     ....  68 

XI.  THE  PLIGHT  OF  A  PEA-HEN;   HER  PRAYERS;    HER 

PURGATORY  .........  72 

XII.  THE  PEACOCK  TRIES  BEING  A  VULTURE  AGAIN  —  BUT 

FAILS         .....       ....  85 


(HDD 
in  lucfe 

I.  Miss  FORTUNE       .....      7      7      7    91 
II.  THE  FRONT-ROW  GIRL  .......  120 

III.  WHEN  THE  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN  PLAYED  RAG-TIME  .  141 

IV.  "CLASS"  ..........  161 

SSoofe  C&ree 
ittaleg  saifjo  Wlouib  3-jHattng  &o 

I.  THE  AMATEUR  BOHEMIAN    ......  197 

II.  THE  PURPLS  PHANTASM      ......  227 


v 


2130389 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

III.  CADGE  DIRKSMELTER,  DRAMATIC  CRITIC        .       .  252 

IV.  CHARLES  CHISHOLM  CANTILEVER:  "BESTSELLER"  275 


jfour 

puitt  J2eto  J2e*&  &far  from 


I.  THE  ETERNAL  CYCLE 301 

II.  FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PROMINENT  CITIZEN.       .  328 

III.  THE  EAGER  PREY 352 

IV.  THE  PALACE  OF  WISDOM 374 


FOREWORD 


SINCE  the  days  when  Broadway  was  as  I  have  written  of 
it  here  the  Great  Change  has  come  to  many  of  us  who  once 
breathed  that  hectic  air.  Service  has  ennobled  many  who, 
true  enough  to  type  as  they  were,  and  as  I  have  described 
them,  have  since  had  a  chance  to  die  worthily  even  if  they  lived 
otherwise.  As  for  myself,  I  have  been  estranged  from  Broad- 
way these  many  years.  Even  when  it  was  my  habitat  it  com- 
manded neither  affection  nor  admiration  from  me. 

Circumstances,  however,  once  put  me  in  a  position  to  see 
it  from  the  inside,  and  just  so  I  have  written  of  it. 

But  let  none  flatter  themselves  that  he  or  she  personally 
is  sufficiently  typical  to  make  any  of  my  characters  new.  All 
who  figure  in  these  pages  are  combinations  of  some  half-score 
or  so  folk  of  their  class.  That  they  run  true  to  form  in  this 
book  is  the  last  reason  in  the  world  for  any  one  person  believ- 
ing him  or  herself  originally  described. 

I  write  this  while  I  await  the  sailing  of  the  ship  that  will 
carry  me  to  England  to  join  His  Majesty's  forces.  While 
you  read  it,  I  believe  my  training  will  be  over  and  that  I  shall 
be  in  France.  There  I  hope  to  see  something  of  what  the 
Great  Change  has  wrought  in  men.  God  grant  I  shall  measure 
up  to  the  high  standard  set  by  the  meanest  Tommy  of  the 
British  Canadians. 

GEORGE  BRONSON-HOWARD. 

On  board  Steamship  501, 
June  jrd,  igi8. 


vu 


Book  I 
THE  PARASITE 


BIRDS  OF  PREY 


Being  Pages  from  the 
Book  of  Broadway 


BOOK  I: 
THE  PARASITE 

not  an  "old  wives' "  tale,  it 
is  at  least  the  oldest  and  the 
favorite  in  the  Decameron  of 
the  Broadway  choruses — 
pity  there  is  no  Boccaccio  to 
write  it  down,  that  it  must  be 
one  of  a  mere  Heptameron. 
All  the  older  girls  know  it, 
they  who  date  from  the  days 
of  hansom  cabs  at  the  stage-door;  those  days  when  Wall  Street 
and  the  House  of  Lords  seemed  principally  for  the  purpose  of 
bringing  fortune  and  fame  to  languid,  lineless  ladies:  days  when 
girls  with  voices  had  been  superseded  by  mere  shapely  beauties; 
who,  in  turn,  have  been  thrust  forth  for  diligent  dancers.  More- 
over, too  much  has  been  explained  in  print  concerning  them, 
and  the  Wall  Street  birds  have  become  gun-shy,  the  Peerage 
peacocks  no  longer  find  matrimony  a  necessity.  The  golden 
days  of  'pp  have  passed:  there  are  poor  pickings  for  the 
"ponies"  of  the  new  regime. 

So  that,  all  along  the  Broadway  coast,  in  the  same  long, 
low  chorus  dressing-rooms  where  in  those  "good  old  days" 
celebrities  were  made  overnight,  "without  half  my  looks, 

s 


4  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

either";  youthful  would-be  buccaneers  sigh  for  an  adviser  like 
"Con"  Phillips  to  take  them  to  those  dizzy  heights  of  stardom 
Violet  Vandam  adorns.  Or,  that  Burton  Jarvis  who  carried 
Lettie  Lee  to  fame.  Or  that  Norman  MacKinder  who  co-stars 
nowadays  with  Beth  Bohen,  or  the  person  known  generally 
as  Arcy  MacTea,  friend  of  Toya  Thiodolf.  .  .  .  Which  is 
the  longest  story  of  all,  for  it  touches  upon  the  life  histories 
of  others  besides:  Carolus  Lang,  the  money  captain;  his 
flighty  and  unworthy  wife ;  J.  Tubman  Leeminster,  polo-player 
and  member  of  many  clubs.  .  .  .  And  over  it  all  hangs  the 
ugly  shadow  of  Milton  Lazard,  parasite;  who,  though  but  a 
peacock,  conceived  himself  foremost  among  birds  of  prey. 

I.    THE  PEACOCK'S  PROGRESS 

THE  Shadenham  Hotel,  a  favorite  nest  for  birds  of  prey, 
was  one  of  that  legion  between  Longacre  and  the  Circle:  a 
legion  that,  without  the  patronage  of  those  whose  habits,  pro- 
fessions or  avocations  are  inimical  to  law  and  morality,  would 
close  their  doors  in  a  week.  So  that,  though  preserving  an 
outward  semblance  of  propriety,  the  managements  must  train 
their  susceptibilities  and  those  of  their  staff  not  easily  to  be 
shocked.  For  in  such  places  flying  figures  in  thin  kimonos 
are  ever  to  be  met  with  between  noon  and  dawn  in  the  halls ; 
many  in  such  scanty  garb  even  taking  the  elevator  from  floor 
to  floor,  for  there  is  not  much  likelihood  of  meeting  within 
their  walls  anyone  that  mere  breaches  of  propriety  are  likely 
to  annoy.  Bell-boys  have  been  trained  to  ignore  the  sound  of 
glass  crashing  and  furniture  overturning,  of  shrill  impreca- 
tions and  hoarsely  growled  oaths,  even  the  sound  of  falls  too 
muffled  to  be  chairs  or  tables.  Room-clerks  learn,  after  their 
first  report,  that  the  odor  they  took  for  cooking  opium  is  only 
that  of  some  Oriental  tobacco;  and  that  no  hour  is  too  late 
for  the  male  visitor  to  be  announced. 


THE  PARASITE  5 

But,  to  the  tyro  entering  the  place  (the  novice,  the  stranger 
in  New  York),  there  are  no  outward  signs  that  will  prevent 
any  young  lady  resident  from  persuading  him  of  her  high  place 
in  the  society  of  her  Southern  home,  or  of  her  presence  in 
New  York  for  the  study  of  music,  painting  or  dramatic  art. 
Below,  the  marble  floor  of  the  foyer  is  covered  with  Oriental 
rugs,  the  walls  with  tapestry  or  Gobelin  burlap.  High  gilt- 
encrusted  vases  and  paintings  in  heavy  gilded  frames  abound. 
But  everything  is  of  that  species  of  imitation  "art"  at  which 
America  excels.  The  clerk  is  dapper,  the  telephone,  lift  and 
bell-boys  are  neatly  uniformed.  Above,  in  the  apartments — 
there  are  few  single  rooms  in  such  places — there  is  more  imi- 
tation "art" :  art  nouveau  wallpaper  and  art  mission  furniture 
— sufficient  to  delude  the  average  half-educated  American, 
reared  in  a  home  that  has  not  yet  rid  itself  of  an  aftermath 
of  horsehair  and  walnut,  that  the  apartment's  resident  has 
"artistic"  tastes. 

It  was  in  such  an  apartment  on  a  December  afternoon  that 
one  girl  of  the  Frivolity  chorus  came  to  call  upon  another; 
rinding  her,  though  the  day  was  far  advanced,  not  yet  awake. 
Nor  eke  her  lord  and  master,  who  slumbered  on  with  great 
snores :  while  a  patient  little  negro  maid  waited,  and  had  waited 
since  noon ;  fearing  to  move  lest  she  disturb  the  sleepers.  But 
the  young  lady  visitor  had  no  such  scruples,  calling  loudly  from 
the  sitting-room  door.  The  lord  and  master  started  up — his 
eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  his  mouth  dry  and  unwholesome — pro- 
testing profanely  in  a  voice  that  varied  between  a  deep  bass 
and  a  high  squeak. 

"It's  time  you  were  up — half-past  three,"  said  the  caller 
calmly.  In  return,  she  got  a  growl  of  semi-recognition  from 
the  pa  jama-clad  one,  who  shook  the  sleeping  figure  beside  him 
violently.  "Better  get  out  and  stop  that  broad  bawling  the 
roof  off,"  he  snarled,  reaching  for  the  bag  of  near-alfalfa  and 


6  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

the  brown  cigarette  papers  that  were  always  his  latest  supper 
and  his  earliest  breakfast. 

The  girl  beside  him  sat  up,  her  short,  scanty  blond  hair 
falling  untidily  about  her  face.  Had  her  many  admirers  seen 
her  then,  barren  of  becoming  apparel,  the  tip  of  her  nose  red 
from  the  cold — for  the  windows  were  open ;  the  circles  beneath 
her  eyes  unerased  by  make-up,  the  eyes  themselves  red-rimmed, 
her  hair  lifeless  and  burnt  from  overmuch  "marcelling,"  and 
most  of  her  coiffure — "puffs,"  made-up  curls  and  "switches" 
— on  the  dressing-table,  they  would  have  failed  to  recognize 
the  vision  that  gladdened  the  restaurants. 

As  for  the  parasite,  stripped  of  his  fashionable  clothes, 
unshaven,  his  heavy  jowls  unrestricted  and  untamed  by  a 
collar,  he  looked  less  the  part  he  had  given  himself  to  play, 
more  that  one  nature  had  assigned  him:  but,  when  he  rose, 
to  potter  over  to  the  coffee  percolator  which  the  little  negro 
girl  had  lit  for  the  fourth  time  that  day,  he  presented  a  picture 
more  ludicrous  than  fearsome.  He  was  like  a  giant  Brownie 
— a  huge  head  shaped  like  a  coal  scuttle,  a  heavy  round  stomach 
and  the  thinnest  of  legs  and  the  smallest  of  feet,  which,  in 
one  more  than  six  feet  tall,  made  him  somewhat  of  a  mon- 
strosity. .  .  .  And  so  the  very  youthful  visitor  giggled ;  which 
annoyed  the  parasite. 

"Thirty  years  of  getting  my  living  by  my  wits,  and  then  to 
be  annoyed  by  a  lot  of  field  mice,"  he  growled  heavily.  The 
bass  of  the  growl  was  not  natural ;  had  been  carefully  assumed 
for  many  years  to  disguise  the  thin,  squeaky  staccato  of  his 
given  voice.  He  snatched  cup  and  saucer  from  the  trembling 
Lilliputian  negress,  and  turned  on  the  percolator  spigot. 

"I  came  in  to  show  you  my  new  ring,"  said  the  caller  jubi- 
lantly, slipping  off  one  glove  and  displaying  a  large  cabochon 
sapphire.  "And  he's  going  to  give  me  another  just  like  it, 
only  a  ruby.  And  say,  Lily,  you  know  that  man  Hardesty 
brought  back  stage  to  meet  me?  Why,  that's  Kane — Monty 


THE  PARASITE  7 

Kane.  And  he  wants  me  to  go  to  Europe  on  his  yacht  with 
him;  and  he  says  if  I  do  he'll  put  a  thousand  in  the  Longacre 
Bank  for  me  and  get  Mandelbaum  to  give  me  a  good  part 
when  I  come  back,  and  he  promised  I  could  have  anything  I 
liked  in  the  Paris  shops  and — " 

"He  didn't  by  any  chance  promise  you  the  Flatiron  Building 
for  a  chaser,  did  he?"  sneered  the  parasite,  then  damned  the 
Lilliputian  for  her  vile  brew  of  Java.  But  there  was  another 
knock  on  the  door  before  the  caller  could  give  her  indignant 
answer,  and  a  third  girl,  a  thin,  anaemic  creature,  a  gray  crepe 
kimono  wrapped  closely  about  her,  came  in.  She  was  followed 
by  a  fourth,  healthy  and  red-blooded,  smartly  dressed  for  the 
street.  She  and  the  first  caller,  who  had  all  the  splendid  color 
and  exuberance  of  youth,  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
two  girls  in  negligee. 

"Having  breakfast  ?"  asked  the  healthy  newcomer  greedily. 
She  sat  herself  down  and,  taking  up  a  slice  of  bread  just  cut 
by  the  Lilliputian,  spread  it  with  jam  and  poured  herself  a 
cup  of  coffee.  "Take  some  more,"  urged  the  parasite  unpleas- 
antly; "rub  it  on  your  chest  or  in  your  hair  if  you  can't  eat 
it.  Go  on.  Don't  you  ever  eat  at  your  own  expense?"  To 
which  the  uninvited  banqueter  only  winked,  being  too  busy 
wolfing  bread  and  jam  to  speak. 

"I  wish  I  could  eat  like  Sarah,"  said  the  other  newcomer 
in  a  peevish,  discontented  voice. 

"You  ought  to  wish  you  were  dead  and  get  it  over  with," 
advised  the  man.  "I'll  bet  my  good  right  arm  and  my  best 
eye  you  got  another  wail  about  your  tough  luck  to  let  out 
of  you.  Why  come  here  with  your  troubles  ?  Life  looks  tough 
enough  to  a  man  just  out  of  the  hay  without  a  flock  of  pin- 
headed  broads  busting  in  on  him;  and  when  they  ain't  eating 
him  out  of  house  and  home,  they're  driving  him  out  with  grave- 
yard groans  or  some  lying  yarn  or  other.  Why  am  /  the 
goat?" 


8  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"If  you're  referring  to  me,  Milton  Lazard,"  said  loftily 
the  young  girl  of  the  new  ring,  "I'll  have  you  know  I'm  not 
in  the  habit  of  telling  lies.  Don't  judge  others  by  yourself, 
you  poor  thing" — which  at  that  time  was  Miss  Toya  Thiodolf's 
idea  of  repartee.  "Look,  girls" — and  the  history  of  the  ring 
and  the  yachting  offer  was  repeated.  "You  saw  the  earrings, 
didn't  you,  Lily  ?"  The  mistress  of  the  apartment  nodded,  but 
the  anaemic  girl  betrayed  some  doleful  interest,  and  the  per- 
petually hungry  Miss  Anna  Drum,  having  eaten  all  she  could 
lay  hands  on,  greedily  eyed  the  sparkling  diamond  and  sap- 
phire drops. 

"You  couldn't  horn  me  in  on  the  trip  some  way,  could 
you  ?"  she  asked,  in  intense  anxiety.  "You  know  I  could  help 
you  a  lot  picking  out  dresses  and  jewelry.  I  used  to  work 
in  the  swellest  department  store  in  Chi — first  I  was  cloak- 
model,  then  selling  junk — tortoise-shell  combs  and  baby  pins 
and  rhinestone  buckles  and  such;  and  I  got  to  know  the  real 
jewelry,  being  so  friendly  with  the  men  clerks — " 

"And  getting  them  to  buy  you  large  hunks  of  nourishment, 
or  I'm  a  mangy  yellow  pup,"  put  in  Lazard  sourly.  "There 
was  chuck  concealed  somewhere  in  any  friendship  you  ever 
had." 

Miss  Drum  laughed  in  loud  boisterousness  as  one  who  has 
been  paid  a  compliment.  "How  about  it,  Toya,  dear?"  she 
continued  eagerly.  "When  do  you  go  ?" 

"Oh,  Arcy  wouldn't  let  me,"  said  little  Miss  Toya,  nestling 
her  smooth  olive  skin  against  the  soft  fur  of  a  huge  pillow 
muff.  Anna  interpreted  her  sigh  of  philosophical  resignation 
with  a  long  intake  of  breath. 

"Well — of  all  the  mean  men!"  she  said.  "I  suppose  he's 
afraid  of  losing  you  if  you  ever  get  away  from  him  and  live 
like  a  lady." 

"Lady?"  jeered  Lazard,  his  third  cup  of  coffee  having 
translated  his  earlier  growl  into  a  mock-genial  satyr's  smile. 


THE  PARASITE  9 

"Lady !  She  couldn't  disguise  herself  as  a  lady  with  that  Sla- 
vonic map  of  hers  tipping  the  gaff,  and  those  heavy  hoofs  of 
hers.  And  she  better  not  invite  you,  Drum,  unless  she  wants 
the  rest  of  the  passengers  to  starve  on  that  tugboat  trip  of  hers 
to  Coney  Island." 

"Tugboat !  Coney  Island ! !"  cried  Toya  passionately. 
"Why,  you  poor  thing,  you ! ! ! !" 

"Oh,  let  her  alone,  Milton,"  urged  the  other  half  of  the 
household. 

"Thirty  years  making  my  living  by  my  wits  and  then  got 
to  listen  to  a  heavy-headed  slab-footed  chorus  girl  talk  about 
passing  up  yacht  trips  to  Europe  and  thousands  in  the  bank; 
just  because  some  thick-headed  lover  says  so,"  said  Lazard  in 
moody  wrath.  "Why — " 

"He  says  it's  best  in  the  end,"  explained  Toya,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  agree,  that  she  is  defending  the  moonshine  of 
a  madman.  "Says  that  once  you  give  in  to  those  rich  fellows 
they  don't  have  any  more  use  for  you." 

"Oh,  they  pay  for  your  entertaining  conversation,  do  they — 
for  the  honor  of  being  seen  with  a  lot  of  pin-headed  broads? 
Don't  make  me  laugh !"  returned  the  man.  This  time  his  bitter 
scorn  held  a  more  personal  reason,  for  if  this  heresy  took  root 
in  the  mind  of  Lily  Lamotte,  he  saw  himself  without  the  where- 
withal with  which  to  amuse  himself  in  a  certain  White  Light 
restaurant,  where  every  night  he  played  Sir  Oracle  (in  motley) 
to  the  court  of  youths  and  others  like  himself  who  gathered 
there. 

"He  says,  Arcy  does,"  went  on  little  Miss  Toya,  "that  sort 
of  thing's  all  right  for  girls  who  haven't  got  the  brains  to  do 
anything  else.  But  a  girl  who's  smart  doesn't  have  to  .  .  ." 

Lazard  rejoiced  that  this  went  unheard  by  Lily,  who  had 
retired  to  turn  the  water  for  her  bath.  "Oh,  and  who's  got 
brains?"  he  snarled  savagely.  "If  yours  ever  grew  the  size 
of  a  flaxseed  you'd  blow  up.  If  these  Johns  who're  looking 


10  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

for  something  lighter  than  air  'ud  only  examine  your  head, 
they'd  find  it  all  right." 

Delighted  with  having  aroused  his  ire — for  she  hated  him 
beyond  endurance  for  many  such  contemptuous  appraisals — 
Miss  Toya  Thiodolf  continued  in  calm,  judicial  tones :  "Arcy 
says  a  fellow  hasn't  got  any  right  to  have  a  girl  unless  he  can 
better  her,  unless  he  can  teach  her  to  do  something  she  can't 
do  herself.  And  he  says  that  no  man  with  any  self-respect 
could  love  a  girl  that  he  shared  with  anybody.  He  says  a 
real  man  wants  his  girl  to  be  his  girl,  or  else  he  don't  care 
very  much  for  her,  and  if  a  girl  had  any  sense  she'd  see  that 
and  know  that  kind  of  fellow's  only  with  a  girl  for  what  he 
can  get  ..." 

"Half  an  orange  in  the  morning  and  half  the  room  and 
half  a  sack  of  tobacco  a  week — I  suppose  I  ought  to  give  Lily 
trading  stamps  for  paying  so  high  for  me,"  snarled  Lazard, 
in  mighty  wrath.  "And  does  this  virtuous  little  guy  of  yours 
believe  you  got  that  ring  and  those  earrings  and  that  taxi 
charge  account  just  because  that  John's  crazy  about  the  sound 
of  your  voice  ?" 

"Of  course  a  thing  like  you  wouldn't  believe  it,"  she  re- 
sponded loftily;  "but  that's  because  it's  out  of  your  class. 
Arcy  says  if  Lily  had  a  chance,  if  she  didn't  have  you,  she 
could  afford  to  string  fellows  along,  too.  But  it's  just  like 
anything  when  you  need  cash,  he  says — you  don't  get  much 
of  it.  You're  a  fine-looking  object  for  a  girl  to  cheapen  her- 
self for !  She  ought  to  have  her  head  examined." 

Anna  Drum,  who  had  profited  herself  of  this  colloquy  to 
wolf  several  slices  of  bread  and  jam  and  drink  the  remaining 
coffee,  laughed  boisterously  again;  and  the  thin,  anaemic  girl, 
who  was  in  a  like  case  with  Lily,  nodded  in  gloomy  convic- 
tion. Lazard  looked  from  one  to  another,  his  huge  moon 
face  purpling. 

When  he  turned  he  saw  that  a  stranger  was  in  the  room 


THE  PARASITE  11 

— a  young  man,  lacking  only  an  inch  or  so  of  six  feet  but 
hardly  sizable  alongside  the  huge  bulk  of  Lazard,  dressed 
foppishly  according  to  Broadway  standards:  his  clothes  more 
usual  to  Fifth  Avenue.  For  those  were  the  days  of  huge 
padded  shoulders;  of  trousers  wide  enough  for  two  at  the 
hips  and  too  narrow  for  one  at  the  ankles;  of  collars  that 
closed  tightly,  showing  only  a  wisp  of  necktie  below ;  of  goose- 
bill  shoes ;  when  the  average  American  was  a  discernible  freak, 
blocks  away,  in  foreign  countries.  Lazard  wore  all  these 
eccentricities  and  slashed  fold-over  pockets,  heavy  coat  cuffs 
with  rows  of  stitching,  and  turn-ups  to  his  trousers  fully  a 
foot  wide,  besides.  The  stranger,  wearing  none  of  them, 
seemed  to  Lazard  badly  dressed  and  insignificant. 

His  identity  was  immediately  established  by  the  trustfully 
adoring  eyes  of  Miss  Toya  Thiodolf ;  and  the  two  men  meas- 
ured each  other  as  do  two  stranger  dogs,  neither  coming  to 
any  flattering  conclusion. 

"This  is  Arcy,  girls,"  said  little  Miss  Toya,  exhibiting  him 
with  even  a  greater  pride  than  she  had  shown  the  ring.  The 
sex  instinct  plays  strange  pranks,  and  these  two,  alien  to  one 
another  in  class,  race,  breeding  and  education,  were  each 
desperately  infatuated  with  the  other.  Lazard  could  see  that 
she  was  making  unfavorable  comparisons  between  her  cher- 
ished one  and  himself,  which  superinduced  one  of  his  usual 
sardonic  speeches. 

"So  this  is  the  famous  adviser  of  indigent  chorus  molls — 
the  guy  who's  got  a  mortgage  on  the  brain-market  ?" 

Arcy  did  not  shine  in  such  exchanges  of  compliments, 
knew  it,  so  only  smiled  deprecatingly.  "Come,  Kittens,"  he 
said  to  Toya;  "you've  got  to  try  on  some  clothes  this  after- 
noon, you  know,  and  you've  got  your  French  lesson  and  your 
music.  .  .  .  I'm  trying  to  teach  her  it's  best  to  cut  out  this 
Broadway  habit  of  buying  a  dozen  ready-made  suits 
instead  of  having  one  made  by  a  good  tailor  that'll  look  well 


12  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

unti'.  it  wears  out,"  he  explained  to  the  others,  and,  nodding, 
he  took  Toya  off. 

"Say,  Lily,"  said  Lazard,  as  that  young  woman  reentered 
the  room,  "you  missed  it — you  missed  seeing  a  little  guy  with 
eyes  wide  apart  just  like  a  smelt,  and  broad  just  like  a  tooth- 
pick: that  little  Slav  chorus  girl's  lover  who's  going  to  get 
you  all  rich — why,  he  couldn't  take  a  handful  of  water  outa 
the  East  River  without  getting  an  icicle  down  his  back.  It 
takes  some  stupid  broad  like  that  little  Slav  to  fall  for  such 
a  titmouse.  The  more  I  see  of  these  smart  fellows,  the  more 
I  realize  how  lucky  you  are  to  grab  a  guy  like  me.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  makes  me  stick — just  habit,  I  guess." 

And,  having  reestablished  himself  in  her  estimation  by 
this  monumental  self-assurance  and  hint  of  insecurity  as  to 
her  possession  of  him,  he  closed  the  curtain,  and,  scorning 
a  bath,  began  to  array  himself  in  those  garments  that  com- 
pelled the  attention  and  won  the  admiration  of  a  certain  section 
of  Broadway. 

II.    THE  TRAINING  OF  THE  HAWK 

ARCY  MACTEA,  christened  Robert  Cameron  MacThyndall, 
his  nickname  due  to  his  habit  of  signing  first  correspondence 
then  newspaper  contributions  with  his  initials  R.  C.  MacT., 
was  careful  to  repress  the  disgust  that  his  experience  in  the 
Lamotte-Lazard  establishment  had  wrought  within  him;  hav- 
ing learned  by  the  experience  of  others  that  there  was  no 
surer  way  to  lose  the  average  woman  than  by  preaching 
morality  to  her.  He  took  another  tack  with  Miss  Toya,  for 
whom  he  cared  quite  as  much  as  she  for  him ;  though  he  took 
good  care  not  to  betray  this. 

"Very  cheap,"  said  he,  taking  a  monogramed  cigarette 
from  a  monogramed  case  of  gold.  A  part  of  his  method  of 
inspiring  the  confidence  of  strangers  was  to  possess  elaborate 


THE  PARASITE  13 

and  costly  accessories  in  "strictly  good  form."  "Very  cheap, 
my  dear  Kittens.  You  shouldn't  get  too  familiar  with  such 
people.  You're  judged  by  your  companions  in  New  York; 
and  if  you're  seen  in  company  with  a  girl  whose  telephone 
number  is  on  the  lists  of  all  the  club  operators,  well  ..." 
He  spread  his  hands  with  a  deprecatory  gesture.  "The  hotel, 
too:  somebody  might  see  you  going  in  there — " 

"I  only  went  in  to  show  her  my  ring,"  said  Toya  defen- 
sively. "She  was  awfully  nice  to  me  when  I  was  green  in 
the  show  business.  And  I  wanted  to  make  him  look  cheap. 
I  wanted  Lily  to  see,  if  he  was  so  smart,  why  don't  he  show 
her  how  to  get  rings.  I  hate  that  Milton  Lazard — always 
acting  like  he's  somebody  and  smarter  than  other  people,  and 
he's  less  than  nobody  at  all." 

They  had  entered  the  waiting  taxicab,  and  Toya  ordered 
the  driver  to  go  through  the  Park  before  heading  for  her 
tailor's  address.  "The  Lazard  kind  flourishes  here  in  New 
York  like  nowhere  else,"  Arcy  went  on.  "That's  because 
nobody  knows  anybody — or  anything.  It's  just  pure  cheek, 
and  keeping  up  appearances,  that  wins  you  anything  here. 
If  you're  modest  and  don't  dress  your  part,  you  land  in  Harlem 
and  stay  there.  But  I  can't  understand  this  Lazard,  if  he's 
got  any  brains  at  all,  letting  that  girl  do  what  she  does.  I 
suppose  he  don't  care :  he  figures  he'll  just  use  her  until  some- 
thing better  comes  along  and  then  drop  her.  By  the  bye,  I 
hear  he's  horned  himself  in  somehow  with  that  crazy,  flighty, 
dyed  and  painted  old  woman,  Mrs.  Carolus  Lang.  I  remember 
him  now  at  her  reception  the  other  night  when  I  went  to  write 
it  up." 

"That  Milton  Lazard — at  her  place !  Why,  how  on  earth 
did  he?  She's  a  society  woman,"  gasped  Toya;  and  Arcy 
laughed  tolerantly.  "But  she  is,"  insisted  the  girl :  "she's 
always  coming  to  our  show  and  sitting  in  a  box  with  lots  of 
young  society  men — don't  I  see  her?" 


14  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"She  pays  the  bills,  my  dear  Kittens,"  explained  Arcy: 
"boxes  and  private  supper-rooms  and  orchestras  and  ragtime 
entertainers.  And  New  York  is  full  of  young  society  men. 
They  come  here  from  other  cities  with  a  few  good  letters  of 
introduction  and  a  dress  suit.  They  make  a  good  appear- 
ance, so  they  get  jobs  as  brokers'  clerks  or  selling  stock  or 
something  down  in  the  Street,  and  they  always  'dance  beau- 
tifully' and  have  'charming  manners' ;  and  get  in  sometimes 
with  the  'brass-band  set' — the  bunch  that  are  always  having 
their  names  in  the  paper  for  doing  nutty  things — even  to  the 
'small  affairs.' "  All  of  which  was  the  merest  jargon  to  this 
child  of  the  lower  West  Side;  where  still  dwelt  her  honor- 
able and  upright  foreign  parents,  from  whom  she  carefully 
concealed  any  such  acquisitions  as  her  new  jewelry  on  her 
Sunday-afternoon  visits. 

"So,"  went  on  Arcy  instructively,  "when  these  fellows  want 
to  enjoy  themselves  along  Broadway,  they  get  on  the  string 
of  some  rich  outsider  who  pays  for  their  pleasure.  They're 
hired  by  Mrs.  Lang  just  like  the  nigger  orchestra.  As  for 
her  being  in  society" — he  laughed — "her  husband  might  be 
because  he's  a  really  big  man — and  being  that,  he  doesn't  care 
any  more  for  it  than  he  cares  for  her,  and  he  lives  over  in 
Europe  somewhere,  collecting  pictures.  But  she's  quite  'im- 
possible'— as  they  say.  Her  foolish-looking  dyed  hair  and  her 
horrible  white,  vicious  old  face  might  be  overlooked,  but  she 
hasn't  the  brains  to  make  her  vice  anything  but  cheap  and 
repulsive.  A  fellow  like  Lazard  could  just  about  appeal 
to  her—" 

"O-oh/'  said  Miss  Toya  angrily,  "I'll  tell  Lily!" 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  he  advised ;  "can't  you  see  getting  rid 
of  him  would  be  the  best  thing  that  ever  happened  to  her  ?v 

"I  know,  but  she  loves  him,"  argued  Toya. 

"Yes,  and  children  love  to  lick  stove  polish  and  puppies 


THE  PARASITE  15 

like  to  eat  shoe  blacking,  but  it  isn't  good  for  them,"  Arcy 
returned. 

"But  I'd  like  to  do  it— I  hate  him  so,"  insisted  Toya.  But 
— Arcy's  brows  contracting — she  hastened  to  take  his  arm  and 
murmur  endearments  and  apologies.  "I  won't  if  you  don't 
want  me  to,"  she  promised. 

"He'd  explain  his  way  out  of  it:  a  woman  always  believes 
what  she  wants  to  believe;  you'd  only  make  enemies  of  both 
of  them.  They'd  be  telling  stories  around  about  you  that 
Leeminster  might  hear — about  your  going  around  with  me, 
for  instance.  You  were  very  foolish  to  show  those  earrings 
and  that  ring,  anyhow;  but  I  knew  there  wasn't  any  use 
telling  you  not  to  wear  them — might  just  as  well  try  that 
Joshua  trick  with  the  sun  as  tell  a  woman  not  to  put  on 
the  newest  thing  she's  got — even  if  it's  on  a  desert  island 
and  there's  nobody  but  the  birds  to  see  her.  But  you  didn't 
say  anything  about  Monty  Kane  and  that  European  trip,  did 
you  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  Arcy,"  she  protested,  but  she  protested  too  so- 
licitously and  he  shook  his  head,  keeping  his  temper  with  an, 
effort. 

"All  right,  if  you  want  to  lose  Leeminster,"  he  said :  "you 
know  that  about  slander  loving  a  shining  mark;  and  slander 
comes  from  envy.  If  you  make  those  chorus-girl  friends  of 
yours  too  envious,  they'll  surely  start  lying  about  you  to  all 
the  stage-door  Johns,  and  it  won't  be  a  week  before  Leeminster 
hears.  And  then,  good  night,  Leeminster!" 

"I  wouldn't  care  a  bit,"  she  pouted:  "I'm  tired  of  listen- 
ing to  him  tell  me  all  those  foolish  things  about  being  his 
'little  white  angel  on  a  pedestal'  and  his  'fragrant  unplucked 
flower'  and  all  that  stuff.  I  feel  so  uncomfortable.  And  he 
looks  at  you  so:  just  like — well,  I  don't  know  what,  but 
funny!  If  he  ever  kisses  me,  I'm  through  with  him — there's 
just  something  about  him  I  can't  stand — " 


16  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"Well,  I  never  told  you  to  go  around  with  him,"  returned 
Arcy :  "you  knew  him  before  you  knew  me.  But  since  you're 
doing  it,  I  only  showed  you  how  to  get  some  of  those  things 
you're  always  complaining  about  because  you  haven't  got.  He's 
playing  a  game  with  you:  I  simply  showed  you  how  to  play 
back.  It  doesn't  do  me  any  good." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,  Arcy,"  she  hastened  to  say;  "but  it's 
so  tiresome  for  us  not  to  be  able  to  be  together  more."  She 
snapped  her  little  teeth  viciously.  "He'll  have  to  pay  dearly 
for  that!" 

The  taxi  drew  up  before  her  tailor's.  "I  do  wish  I  could 
get  something  big  like  Violet  Vandam  did  from  that  Ferine 
and  then  tell  Leeminster  good-night,"  she  said  gloomily.  "But 
I  hate  to  give  up  my  taxi  cab  account,  and  where  would  I  get 
the  money  to  go  to  tailors  like  Koenig  and  places  like  Madame 
Marguery's  for  dresses  if  he  didn't  let  me  send  the  bills  to 
him  ?  And — "  She  looked  at  the  sapphire  ring  almost  as  she 
would  have  looked  into  her  lover's  eyes. 

"I'm  not  telling  you  to  do  it — you  suggested  it  yourself," 
said  Arcy  impatiently.  "Don't  try  to  put  the  blame  on  me  and 
say  I  was  so  jealous  I  robbed  you  of  things  I  couldn't  give 
you  myself.  I  know  you  women.  You  want  somebody  else 
to  make  your  minds  up  for  you,  so  you  won't  have  to  reproach 
yourself  if  things  go  wrong.  Go  on  in  and  try  your  suit  on." 

"You  go  ahead  and  drive  anywhere  you  want  to  while  I'm 
in  there,"  she  urged  eagerly. 

He  shook  his  head,  but  concealed  his  distaste  for  the  pro- 
posal: that  was  quite  a  different  thing  from  riding  with  her 
at  another  man's  expense  because  he  could  offer  her  only  street- 
cars, to  which  he  did  not  share  her  great  aversion.  "You 
go  ahead  with  your  appointments,  and  call  me  up  after  the 
theater,"  he  said. 

"And  you'll  be  at  your  place,  waiting  for  me?"  she  asked 
anxiously.  He  nodded,  then  strode  off  down  the  Avenue. 


THE  PARASITE  17 

III.  CUCKOOS  AND  CUCKOLDS 

"IT'S  all  very  well  for  you  to  be  so  all-fired  moral.  But 
if  she  were  your  girl  and  you  were  in  my  position  you'd  do 
just  the  same  thing.  You  see,  I'm  crazy  about  her,  Bobbert. 
And  it's  the  old  half-a-loaf  stuff — understand  ?" 

The  explanation  to  his  friend  of  his  relations  with  Miss 
Thiodolf  had  been  brought  about  because  of  Arcy's  refusal 
to  sup  at  Curate's — the  famous  restaurant  which  his  home- 
town friend  very  much  desired  to  see;  and  in  the  company 
of  one  like  Arcy  who  called  celebrities  by  nicknames.  So 
annoyed  had  he  been  by  Arcy's  stubbornness  that,  sooner  than 
bring  about  a  breach,  Arcy  had  been  impulsive  enough  to 
acquaint  him  with  his  reasons :  Toya  was  supping  there  with 
Leeminster.  This  confidence  he  immediately  regretted  when 
he  saw  looks  of  shock,  pain  and  disgust  mingle  on  the  face  of 
young  Mr,  Branch.  In  the  society  of  the  small  Southern  town, 
the  birthplace  of  both,  there  was  nothing  even  slightly  analo- 
gous to  Arcy's  present  equivocal  position. 

"If  7  were  in  your  place  I  wouldn't  wait  a  minute,"  said 
Branch  indignantly,  finding  his  voice  again.  "I'd  either  make 
her  give  up  him  or  me.  If  she  hesitates  she  can't  care  very 
much  for  you — " 

"But  you  don't  get  the  angle,"  interrupted  Arcy  irritably, 
"the  viewpoint  of  her  class:  she  can't  see  why  she  can't  have 
us  both  as  long  as  the  other  affair's  platonic.  And  she  sees 
to  it,  I'm  sure  of  that.  His  letters  are  enough." 

"You  read  another  man's  letters!"  asked  Branch  in  a  rising 
tone. 

"Oh,  my  God — cut  out  that  superior  attitude!  Listen — 
you're  not  in  Greenborough,  where  life  is  laid  out  on  simple 
lines.  This  is  that  large  and  well-known  city  surrounded  by 
water  and  money,  where  things  are  complex. 

"It's  these  rich  men,"  he  went  on,  scowling,  more  uneasy 


18  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

at  Branch's  silence  than  at  his  protests ;  "why  can't  they  stick 
to  their  own  class  ?  But  no !  They've  got  to  have  their  own 
women  and  everyone  else  worth  having,  too — if  money  will 
do  the  trick.  And  they've  got  a  patience  that's  wonderful. 
And  cunning — say,  they  go  after  these  girls  in  the  show  busi- 
ness and  in  the  shops  and  artists'  studios  just  like  they  go 
stalking  big  game.  They're  not  satisfied  to  take  the  experi- 
enced ones — oh,  no !  They  want  youth,  and,  if  possible,  inno- 
cence. That  stirs  their  jaded  blood.  And  they  don't  care  how 
long  they  stalk  or  how  much  they  spend  or  how  low  they 
descend." 

"That  doesn't  make  your  end  of  it  any  more  decent  just 
because  they're  rotten.  You  ought  to  forbid  her  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  them." 

"Listen,  Bod,"  said  Arcy,  losing  his  patience  and  pounding 
the  table ;  "you  don't  seem  to  realize  what  living  in  New  York 
means.  These  girls  get  twenty  a  week.  That  would  give  them 
everything  in  Greenborough :  they  could  live  in  nice  neighbor- 
hoods and  have  nice  things  to  eat  and  nice  clothes  and  every- 
thing. Here  it  means  living  in  a  dirty  street,  in  a  dirty  apart- 
ment-house with  paper  walls  and  no  privacy,  with  the  smell 
of  leaking  gas  and  bad  cooking  in  the  halls — or  else  miles 
out  in  the  suburbs  where  they  have  to  take  crowded  Subway 
or  Elevated  trains  late  at  night  and  stand  for  men  giving  them 
the  eye  and  crowding  up  against  them  in  the  seats  and  speak- 
ing familiarly,  and  doing  about  everything  else  to  make  them 
feel  cheap  and  common — when  they're  as  pretty  as  Toya  is. 
And  then  a  walk,  alone,  through  a  lonely  neighborhood  at 
midnight.  So  that  part  of  it's  impossible.  Then  there's 
boarding-houses:  decent  ones  where  you  have  any  food  fit 
for  human  beings  cost  at  least  twelve  a  week — and  for  a  hall 
room  at  that.  Which  leaves  her  eight  dollars  to  dress  on  and 
for  carfares.  Well,  she  might  get  away  with  that,  but  there's 
three  whole  months  in  the  year  when  the  show  business  is  prac- 


THE  PARASITE  19 

tically  suspended,  so  money  has  to  be  saved  for  that.  Precious 
few  are  lucky  enough  to  get  into  a  success  like  'The  Bonbon 
GiiT  every  season.  Failures  mean  three  to  eight  weeks  of 
rehearsals  without  pay.  Then  if  a  girl  doesn't  want  to  leave 
New  York,  she  must  rehearse  for  three  or  four  shows  a  sea- 
son, not  counting  the  intermissions  between  jobs.  While  on 
the  road  they  get  twenty-two  dollars  per — they  raise  them  a 
little — and  it's  almost  impossible,  traveling,  for  a  girl  to  have 
a  clean  bathroom  and  a  clean  bed  and  decent  food.  It  would 
be  all  right  if  they  weren't  thrown  in  touch  with  a  life  of 
luxury  all  the  time.  But  they  are." 

"I'm  not  thinking  about  her :  it's  about  you,  Arcy,"  began 
his  friend  defensively.  "You — " 

"But  I'm  trying  to  explain  me,"  exploded  the  exasperated 
Arcy.  "Those  rich  fellows  deliberately  make  these  girls  dis- 
satisfied with  the  way  they've  been  brought  up.  If  the  girl's 
a  nice  young  thing,  on  the  lookout  to  defend  herself  as  mamma 
has  taught  her,  they  get  the  theater  manager  to  introduce  them 
in  the  most  polite,  respectful  sort  of  way.  A  lot  of  them  put 
money  into  shows  just  for  such  privileges.  Then  they  take 
her  to  tea  some  place  where  she  feels  shabby  and  badly  dressed 
among  a  lot  of  idle,  gaudy  women.  And  he  sends  his  car  to 
take  her  home  after  the  theater  some  nights.  And  pretty  soon 
he  tells  her  he  knows  some  modiste  who  could  make  clothes 
that  would  just  suit  her :  he'll  introduce  her  and  the  shop  will 
trust  her.  Then  he  says  he  hates  to  think  of  her  eating  at 
that  cheap  boarding-house  or  in  those  hash-houses — or  home 
where  mother  cooks  cornbeef  and  cabbage.  Some  hotel  or 
restaurant  advertises  in  some  Wall  Street  paper  he  owns  or 
has  a  share  in  (generally  a  lie,  that,  but  it's  a  recognized  part 
of  the  system)  and  he  takes  out  the  advertising  in  restaurant 
bills.  And,  as  he  never  uses  it  all  up,  it  won't  be  costing  him 
one  penny  if  she  signs  checks  there  for  every  meal  she  eats 
every  day.  Same  way  about  a  taxicab  account. 


SO  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"And  so  it  goes  on — they've  got  a  thousand  tricks:  the 
game's  been  worked  out  as  scientifically  as  chess.  There's 
the  friend-gone-abroad,  saves-money-if-she-lives  there,  have-to- 
get-a-caretaker-for-apartment-if-she-don't,  dodge.  Anyhow,  if 
they  really  go  seriously  after  some  young  girl,  no  matter  how 
touchy  she  might  be  about  accepting  money,  in  a  few  weeks 
they've  got  her  used  to  eating  expensive  food,  taking  a  taxi  to 
go  a  block,  sitting  around  in  smart  restaurants,  wearing  Paris 
clothes — and,  maybe,  living  in  a  beautiful  apartment.  Now 
what  a  chance  they're  ever  going  back  to  smelly  Harlem  flats 
or  cheap  boarding-houses,  to  being  jostled  and  insulted  in 
crowded  street-cars,  to  wearing  little  cheap  ready-made  suits 
and  imitation  lace  collars!  You  read  about  it  in  books,  Bob- 
bert,  but  it  doesn't  happen  in  life,  believe  me.  The  girl  does 
one  of  two  things:  she  either  becomes  his  mistress — which 
means  she'll  last  with  him  a  few  months  or  a  few  years,  and 
then  has  to  hunt  another;  or  else,  if  she's  clever,  she  invents 
some  excuse  for  putting  him  off  and  thinks  up  some  other 
way  of  getting  his  money.  And  if  the  last  happens,  he  hollers 
'blackqaail,'  and  calls  her  every  kind  of  name.  After  he's 
deliberately  taught  her  to  need  the  things.  A  hot  lot  of  sports 
they  are!" 

"I  agree  with  you,"  gasped  Branch.  "Good  God — what 
people !" 

"Well,  that  was  the  way  with  Toya,"  Arcy  pursued.  "If 
she  hadn't  met  me,  she'd  have  fallen  for  Leeminster,  I  sup- 
pose. There's  a  fine  young  hypocrite.  Belongs  to  Uplift 
Leagues  and  Civic  Betterment  Societies  and  Anti-Boss  Poli- 
tics— has  a  reputation  as  spotless  as  the  driven  snow;  passes 
the  plate  every  Sunday  in  one  of  the  fashionable  churches — 
a  vestryman,  I  think;  and  makes  speeches  at  silk-stocking 
political  meetings  about  'Down  with  immorality.  Drive  the 
women  off  the  streets.  Put  out  the  red  lights.'  Those  fel- 
lows can't  understand  why  anybody  should  want  to  be  im- 


THE  PARASITE  21 

moral  but  themselves.  But  they  don't  call  their  way  of  doing 
things  immoral.  Oh,  my,  no!  Immorality,  my  dear  Bobbert, 
paints  its  face  very  thickly  and  wears  loud  clothes  and  doesn't 
go  to  church." 

"I'm  glad  I  stayed  in  Greenborough,"  said  Branch  indig- 
nantly. 

"Everybody  there  keeps  too  good  a  watch  on  one  another 
for  much  dishonesty  or  immorality,"  was  Arcy's  cynical  an- 
swer. "I  guess  it  about  comes  down  to  that,  Bobbert.  And 
that  goes  for  countries  as  well  as  people.  Switzerland  has 
the  most  honest  government  as  well  as  the  most  moral  people — 
it's  the  smallest.  And  the  United  States,  which  is  the  largest, 
has  the  most  dishonest  government,  and — " 

"Don't  say  that  about  our  people,  Arcy,"  Branch  inter- 
rupted. "America's  not  New  York,  you  know." 

"It's  New  York  and  Chicago  and  San  Francisco  and  the 
big  cities,  though,  that  influence  the  rest  of  the  country,"  Arcy 
replied  gloomily.  "Look  at  me,  for  instance.  Down  in  Green- 
borough,  I  had  the  highest  sort  of  a  sense  of  honor.  Why? 
Because  that  was  the  standard.  I  come  up  here  and^n^  the 
only  standard  is  being  a  'smart  fellow.'  And  bein^^fhart 
means  getting  money.  .  .  .  You  know,  I  can  even  under- 
stand those  fellows  who  live  off  women,  now.  Not  that  I 
haven't  just  as  much  contempt  for  them  as  you  have,"  he 
hastened  to  add  before  Branch  could  break  in  with  a  shocked 
exclamation;  "I  saw  one  of  them  to-day — the  worst  kind  they 
breed,  I  guess ;  and  my  disgust  at  being  in  the  same  room  with 
him  almost  made  me  spit  on  him.  He  was  a  low  specimen. 
.  .  .  But  take  a  fellow  who  means  well  but  who's  just  weak, 
and  put  him  in  my  position.  (This  is  my  day  off  or  I  wouldn't 
be  sitting  around  talking  to  you,  bet  your  boots  on  that.) 
Here  I  work  on  the  Argus  about  twelve  hours  a  day ;  hardest 
kind  of  work  reporting  is — chasing  all  over  the  city  following 
a  dozen  ends  to  a  story,  seeing  a  hundred  people  a  day,  snatch- 


22  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

ing  a  sandwich  and  a  cup  of  coffee  for  dinner,  generally,  then 
off  again  for  half  the  night,  sometimes  all  night  if  a  late  story 
breaks  loose  and  you  have  to  get  it  for  the  lobster  edition — 
the  late  one.  No  extra  pay  for  overtime  in  our  business, 
either.  Well,  then  I  meet  Toya  and  go  and  have  supper  some- 
where— that's  my  first  real  meal,  and  my  first  chance  to  enjoy 
myself.  And  the  only  places  open  are  the  all-night  restau- 
rants. 

"Now  take  a  man  like  that  who's  got  a  girl.  They  get 
home  past  daybreak,  and  he's  supposed  to  be  at  the  office  by 
eleven.  Now  figure — the  alarm  clock  goes  off  and  he's  dead, 
to  the  world,  but  he  has  to  drag  his  heavy  head  off  the  pillow 
and  forget  his  aching  body  and  snatch  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
off.  And  every  time  she  says:  'Oh,  dearest,  take  a  day  off. 
Get  some  sleep.  You're  killing  yourself.  Sleep  until  two, 
then  we'll  go  for  a  ride  and  have  lunch  out  in  the  country.' 
I  guess  that  sounds  rotten!  I  wouldn't  listen,  because  I'm 
looking  forward  to  a  career;  but  imagine  some  fellow  who 
hasn't  got  much  strength  of  character.  He  does.  Then  he 
listens  again,  and  finally  he  loses  his  job.  She  says:  'Don't 
worry,  dear,  we  won't  ,cf.arve.'  Well,  he  gets  another  job, 
and  this  time  he  isn't  so  scared  of  losing  it.  The  next  time 
he  loses  it  he  don't  hurry  getting  another.  They  drive  around 
and  go  into  the  country  as  she  said,  and  go  to  professional 
matinees  and  get  up  late  and  read  novels  and  what  not.  Well, 
finally,  the  last  time  he's  out,  he  has  such  a  bad  'rep'  for 
unreliability  it's  hard  to  get  in  again;  and  he  takes  that  for 
a  sop  to  his  manhood:  he  tells  himself  'I  tried,  didn't  I?' 
every  day.  But,  really,  he's  enjoying  himself  loafing  around, 
having  all  he  had  when  he  worked,  and  not  having  to  work. 
And,  pretty  soon,  he  says:  'What  fools  fellows  are  to  work 
themselves  into  the  grave  for  that  little  bit  of  money  I  made !' 
He's  thinking  about  how  easily  the  girl  borrowed  a  century 
note  from  some  rich  man. 


THE  PARASITE  23 

"Well,*hat  can't  keep  up,  though.  Pretty  soon  they  pawn 
her  jewelry.  Then,  he  don't  ask  her  any  questions  as  to 
where  the  money  comes  from.  .  .  .  And  all  the  while  he's 
kidding  himself  the  big  opportunity  of  a  lifetime  is  going  to 
come  and  hunt  him  up,  and  he  was  wise  to  wait  for  it  instead 
of  wasting  his  time  on  a  small  job.  For  most  of  'em  make 
less  than  I  do  and  have  to  be  at  the  office  at  nine  o'clock, 
not  eleven.  That's  where  these  vice-prevention  societies  are 
all  wrong  about  these  'cadets.'  Women  make  as  many  as  they 
make  what  the  papers  call  'white  slaves.'  It's  funny,  Bobbert, 
but  there  are  very  few  people  in  the  world  that  deliberately 
start  out  to  be  vicious.  Most  of  them  wouldn't  know  the  truth 
about  themselves  if  you  showed  'em:  they'd  be  insulted. 
They've  been  kidding  themselves  too  long." 

"I  hope  you'll  remember  that  in  your  own  case,"  said 
Branch  significantly;  then  added  hurriedly,  fearing  he  had 
implied  too  much:  "But  what  about  this  fellow  you  saw  to- 
day— if  so  few  are  really  vicious?" 

"Oh,  he  was  an  exception,"  returned  Arcy,  frowning. 
"What  a  big  rat  he  was — pfugh! — don't  let's  talk  about  him. 
.  .  .  But  what  do  you  mean — in  my  case?  What  do  I  gain 
from  Toya  seeing  Leeminster?  I'd  be  better  off  if  she  didn't. 
The  jewelry  she  gets  doesn't  help  me,  and  I'm  on  pins  and 
needles  whenever  I  have  to  ride  in  the  taxi  with  her.  And 
I  have  my  position  just  as  I  always  had,  and  when  we're  out 
together  I  pay  the  bills.  We  don't  even  live  together.  Don't 
get  any  wrong  ideas,  Bob.  I,  personally,  don't  want  Toya  to 
string  Leeminster.  But  I'm  not  so  selfish  as  to  take  away 
her  chance  of  getting  a  lot  of  valuable  jewelry  that  will  make 
her  independent  so  if  she's  out  of  a  job  she  won't  have  to 
stop  her  French  lessons  and  all  that.  The  poor  kid  quit  school 
at  thirteen  and  went  into  a  department  store.  That  jewelry 
will  pay  for  the  education  that's  so  necessary  if  she's  ever 


24  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

going  to  get  up  in  the  profession.  My  wages  are  just  about 
enough  to  support  me." 

"Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  you've  got  plenty  of  excuses,  Arcy," 
yawned  Branch:  "you'd  have  to  have  for  you  to  mix  up  a 
game  like  this."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Well,  old  man, 
as  this  is  my  last  night  in  New  York,  I'm  going  to  see  Curate's : 
I  wouldn't  dare  go  back  to  Greenborough  without  having  seen 
it — and  all  the  celebrities." 

"All  the  celebrities  catch  the  last  train  for  the  country," 
growled  Arcy :  "they  don't  hang  around  supper  places ;  they've 
got  something  better  to  do.  It's  people  who're  trying  to  be 
celebrities.  But  if  you're  determined,  I  suppose  it's  up  to  me. 
Come  on." 

IV.  THE  OWLS 

CURATE'S,  famous  from  sea  to  sea,  the  scene  of  farces, 
novels,  a  thousand  short  stories  and  a  million  newspaper  para- 
graphs, was  in  its  heyday  at  that  time,  and  in  full  flower  the 
hour  they  entered  it — past  midnight.  All  the  pretty  faces 
and  shapely  forms  that  the  audiences  of  Broadway  musical 
shows  had  admired  earlier  in  the  evening  seemed  to  be  here; 
their  escorts,  for  the  most  part,  middle-aged  men  whose  as- 
sumed rakishness  sat  ill  upon  them,  and  younger  ones  who, 
it  seemed,  had  found  it  necessary  to  drink  heavily  that  it  might 
not  be  unbecoming  to  them  also:  both  sorts  (in  the  main)  of 
the  unmistakable  "Avenue"  brand,  their  impeccable  dress-coats, 
collars,  ties,  flat-heeled  pumps  or  shoes,  and  the  width  of  their 
dress-trousers  braid,  exact  duplicates  each  of  the  other.  It 
seemed  a  sort  of  uniform.  To  be  in  the  slightest  degree 
original,  to  vary  from  type  by  so  much  as  a  larger  or  extra 
shirt  stud,  marked  the  outsider:  it  was  that  dreadful  and  un- 
forgivable calamity,  "bad  form":  a  different  viewpoint  from 
that  day  of  real  elegance  in  grooming,  the  Regency,  when  he 


THE  PARASITE  25 

with  the  taste  (or  the  valet)  to  invent  attractive  novelties  of 
attire  was  the  most  fashionable:  different  from  the  viewpoint 
of  any  rational  age.  But,  when  conventional  men  hold  power, 
conventionality  must  be  capitalized,  must  become  a  virtue. 
And  every  one  of  these  conventionally  attired  men  was  a  mem- 
ber of  exclusive  clubs,  the  holder  of  a  name  honored  by  an- 
cestor-worshipers or  by  Dun  or  Bradstreet,  a  part  of  past 
or  contemporary  history. 

"It's  funny  how  quickly  New  York  turns  individuals  into 
types,"  Arcy  had  once  said  to  Toya.  "You  know  those  hollow 
lead  moulds  that  confectioners  pour  hot  candy  in  and  take  it 
out  shaped  like  a  man.  There  must  be  one  of  those  around 
here.  Those  fellows  come  from  everywhere :  from  all  classes ; 
not  half  of  them  are  born  gentlemen,  not  a  quarter  born  New 
Yorkers.  But,  all  of  a  sudden,  there's  another  thin-legged 
stork  looking  exactly  like  all  the  rest.  One  tailor  in  New 
York  not  only  makes  clothes  for  those  fellows,  but  picks  out 
shirts,  ties,  boots — everything  that  goes  with  it.  They'd  as 
soon  be  seen  walking  the  Avenue  in  their  pajamas  as  wearing 
something  he  didn't  approve." 

J.  Tubman  Leeminster  was  not  one  of  the  latter  sort, 
Arcy,  despite  his  dislike,  was  compelled  to  admit.  The  Lee- 
minsters  dated  from  the  days  when  "York"  was  substituted 
for  "Amsterdam."  So  far  as  the  "Street"  was  concerned, 
no  Leeminster  had  ever  been  forced  to  take  money  from  the 
unhallowed  hands  of  its  original  owners:  Leeminsters  left 
all  that  sort  of  thing  to  more  recent  people;  or  to  those  un- 
fortunates of  their  own  class  who  were  burdened  with  bour- 
geois ideas  about  love  in  connection  with  marriage.  Frankly, 
like  embarrassed  peers,  the  Leeminsters  had  long  since  looked 
on  marriage  as  a  vocation.  They  acknowledged  their  inability 
to  cope  with  climbing  commercials  on  their  own  ground:  be- 
sides, what  need,  when  such  would  presently  invade  theirs? 
So  they  allowed  the  new  people  to  make  the  money,  and  then, 


26  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

as  a  great  favor,  agreed  to  share  it.  For  three  generations, 
Leeminsters,  male  and  female,  had  exchanged  social  position 
for  large  quantities  of  newly  laid  golden  eggs  which  it  then 
became  their  life  work  to  scatter  in  the  manner  most  agree- 
able to  them,  and  most  disagreeable  to  their  constitutions.  With 
the  result  that  this  later  Leeminster  was  a  young  man  of  sin- 
gularly vacuous  countenance,  scanty  hair  and  an  unhealthy 
pallor. 

To  see  this  person  with  Toya  was  like  a  burning  brand 
thrust  into  the  face  of  Arcy  MacTea.  "Damn  him!"  he  said 
viciously.  "To  think  I  have  to  sweat  twelve  hours  a  day 
for  forty  dollars  a  week,  and  he  gets  everything  just  for  being 
kind  enough  to  live!"  He  checked  himself,  remembering. 
"He  doesn't,  though,  Bobbert,"  he  added,  with  a  grin:  "he's 
got  to  marry  now  he's  had  his  fling — Miss  Mae  Hefflefinger, 
the  daughter  of  the  fellow  who  makes  those  hams  you  see 
advertised  so  much.  'Mae' !  I'll  bet  he  shivers  every  time  he 
see  that  Riverside  Drive  spelling.  She'll  be  'Mary' — or 
'May'  at  least — on  the  wedding  announcements;  see  if  she 
isn't." 

"And  he  has  the  nerve  to  be  seen  at  supper  with  another 
girl  ?"  asked  Branch. 

"Oh,  Bobbert,  you  weary  me,"  protested  his  friend. 
"Curate's  is  as  far  from  Canary's  as  the  Argentine  Republic. 
The  women  of  his  set  don't  come  over  to  Broadway  except 
to  go  slumming.  And  then  they  pride  themselves  on  being 
Continental ;  and,  in  Paris,  if  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  crowd 
goes  to  Montmartre  and  sees  a  duke  with  a  pretty  figurante, 
they  realize  it  isn't  his  fault :  they  aren't  expected  to  be  there ; 
so  they  pretend  they  never  saw  him  there  next  time  they  meet 
— officially.  .  .  .  You're  thinking  of  Greenborough  again; 
where  there's  only  two  hotel  restaurants  and  everybody  has  to 
act  like  they're  in  church." 

Arcy  was  talking  rapidly,  almost  feverishly;  for  Toya  was 


THE  PARASITE  27 

looking  toward  him;  and  he  must  present  an  appearance  of 
indifference.  He  knew  her  nature  well  enough  to  realize 
that  one  of  his  strongest  holds  on  her  was  her  belief  that 
he  absolutely  lacked  jealousy — which  made  her  suspect  he  did 
not  sufficiently  love  her,  and  increased  her  own  infatuation. 
So  he  resolutely  refused  to  catch  her  eye.  To  all  appearances, 
he  might  not  have  known  of  her  presence.  Now  he  threw  one 
leg  over  the  other,  which  turned  him  completely  from  sight  of 
her,  and  continued  his  animated  monologue. 

"Look  at  this  bunch  in  here  to-night.  There  might  be  a 
dozen  'professionals'  eating  after  the  show  because  they're 
hungry;  and  a  dozen  more  out-of-town  people,  Harlemites 
and  Brooklynites — though  the  head-waiter  don't  give  many 
seats  to  people  he  don't  know,  not  at  this  hour,  when  the  tip- 
ping's  at  its  height.  The  remainder  are  just  Dyak  head-hunters. 
Look  at  these  girls.  Hardly  one's  twenty-five.  This  kind  of 
men  want  chickens — 'flappers'  they  call  'em.  When  girls  get 
past  the  flapper  stage,  if  they  haven't  laid  something  by,  it's 
them  for  the  college  boys.  That's  the  first  step  downward, 
and  it's  fast  after  that,  unless  they  marry  or  make  good  on 
the  stage.  And  these  fellows  don't  want  'em  to  make  good 
and  get  independent  and  choose  whoever  they  want.  They 
discourage  it.  'What  do  you  want  to  stick  around  a  stuffy 
theater  for,  and  sit  in  cold  dressing-rooms?'  they  say.  'A 
pretty  girl  like  you  don't  need  to.  Most  of  these  actresses 
have  to  get  ahead  because  they're  so  unattractive  to  men. 
But  you  .  .  .'  And,  will  you  believe  it,  most  of  those  poor 
conceited  little  fools  fall  for  it.  I  heard  one  of  them  pitying 
the  best-known  woman  star  in  America,  because  she  saw  her 
plainly  dressed,  hurrying  along  on  foot,  while  this  girl  in  a 
flaming  gown  rode  past  in  a  motor  car.  Pitied  her !  Imagine ! !" 
And  Arcy  burst  into  a  boisterous  laugh  which  was  only  half 
real. 

But  his  merriment  fled  instantly  when  a  uniformed  page 


28  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

was  heard  moving  near  and  murmuring  as  if  to  the  ears  of  all 
at  large.  "Message  for  Mr.  MacThyndall.  Message — "  Arcy 
called  him. 

"You,  sir?  Telephone  message,"  said  the  page,  and  let  one 
eyelid  droop  the  merest  trifle,  which  he  knew  would  increase 
the  size  of  his  tip:  the  note's  only  connection  with  the  tele- 
phone being  that  it  had  been  written  at  the  operator's  switch- 
board. Lacking  the  easier  opportunities  of  the  foreign  supper 
places  where  men  and  women  have  a  common  retiring-room, 
Broadway  had  long  ago  hit  on  this  method  of  communicating 
with  some  other  person  in  the  room  without  arousing  the  sus- 
picion of  escorts.  One  simply  excused  oneself  to  telephone, 
and  there  wrote  the  message,  which  was  delivered  as  if  it  had 
come  over  the  wire. 

"Pardon  me,  Bob — I  wonder  how  they  knew  I  was  here  ?" 
said  Arcy  hypocritically,  as  he  opened  the  envelope.  "Go 
next  door  to  Noel's,  dearest,"  he  read.  "I'll  pretend  a  head- 
ache or  something  and  get  him  to  put  me  in  a  taxi,  and  I'll 
just  drive  around  the  block  and  come  back.  How's  the  Kit- 
ten's papa,  precious?"  The  note  concluded  with  a  row  of 
"x's,"  the  approved  method  for  the  germless  transmission  of 
kisses.  Guiltily,  Arcy  tore  it  up. 

"Lucky  she  wasn't  with  me  when  I  got  that"  he  said  aloud, 
pretending  wholesale  roguishness.  "That  girl  must  have  tele- 
phoned every  place  along  Broadway.  .  .  .  Well,  I  suppose 
I'll  have  to  go,  Bobbert." 

He  noted,  grimly,  that  his  friend,  who  had  taken  so  strong 
a  moral  stand  on  his  other  peccadilloes,  seemed  to  consider 
this  deception — as  he  supposed  it — of  a  trusting  mistress  quite 
the  merriest  sort  of  jest.  "And  she  sitting  here  all  the  time!" 
Branch  chuckled.  "Say,  hasn't  this  one  got  a  friend?  Can't 
you  butt  me  in  somehow  ?" 

Arcy  was  beginning  to  weary  of  Branch.  They  had  been 
school  and  college  chums,  to  be  sure;  but  Branch  had  not 


THE  PARASITE  29 

progressed  in  worldly  wisdom.  Even  had  Toya's  supposed 
rival  been  real,  and  had  she  had  a  complaisant  friend,  Arcy 
would  not  have  introduced  her  to  the  Greenborough  man. 
Such  sophisticated  maidens  only  suffered  boredom  when  they 
were  well  paid  for  it. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  blush  for  his  stupidity,  Arcy  realized 
that  Branch's  viewpoints  were  identical  with  those  of  the  very 
men  he  had  been  excoriating :  Branch  was  the  average  Amer- 
ican: what  an  ass  he  (Arcy)  had  been  to  try  to  explain  the 
philosophy  of  quite  another  world ! 

"Don't  take  all  that  seriously  I  was  telling  you,  Bob,"  he 
said,  forcing  a  laugh.  "I  only  met  Toya  Thiodolf  last  week; 
and  I  haven't  any  more  to  do  with  what  she  does  than  you 
have.  I  was  only  talking  to  see  how  much  I  could  shock  you ; 
and  you  fell  for  it — ha,  ha!  You  seemed  to  expect  to  be 
shocked  in  the  big  town,  so  I  couldn't  bear  to  disappoint  you. 
Of  course  you're  right.  She'd  have  to  give  Leeminster  up 
before  she  could  be  my  girl.  I  never  thought  you'd  swallow 
all  that,  honest!  Oh  you  small-town  kid!"  By  this  time  he 
had  managed  to  make  his  laugh  hearty.  "So  long.  Call  me 
up  to  say  good-bye  before  you  take  the  train  South." 

Branch  gripped  his  hand  as  of  old.  "I'm  willing  to  know 
I'm  a  mark  to  hear  it  isn't  so  about  you,"  he  said:  "I'd 
never  have  got  over  your  being  that  kind  of  a  fellow,  Arcy. 
It  would  have  put  me  in  a  horrible  hole  if  you  ever  came 
back  to  Greenborough  and  I  had  to  invite  you  over  to  the 
house  where  my  sisters  are — and  where  the  sweetest  little  girl 
in  the  world's  going  to  be  within  the  next  year  ..." 


80  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


V.  THE  NEST  OF  THE  NIGHT  BIRDS 

NOEL'S,  only  a  door  from  Curate's,  owed  its  continued 
existence  very  largely  to  the  fact  of  this  proximity;  for,  al- 
though Arcy  MacTea  was  yet  to  discover  it,  most  of  its  patrons 
had  reasons  for  being  there  somewhat  similar  to  his  own. 

There  is  no  Noel's  in  the  Broadway  of  the  new  genera- 
tion— a  generation  being  but  half  a  decade  on  Broadway.  But 
then  there  existed  a  night  life  not  dissimilar  to  that  of  Paris; 
of  which  Curate's  represented  the  center,  the  Manhattan  Cafe 
de  Paris;  Noel's,  one  of  those  Montmartre  cabarets  or  bars 
where  gather  well-dressed  Apaches,  minor  poets  and  actors. 
When  this  place  had  opened  for  the  eleventh  time  under  the 
eleventh  name,  Noel,  who  was  risking  all  the  savings  he  had 
gained  as  a  captain  of  Curate's  waiters,  had  gained  permission 
to  have  a  small  door  cut  through  into  Curate's  by  which  his 
waiters  might  come  to  fill  those  occasional  orders  for  food 
which  his  patrons  might  give.  These  in  the  past  history  of 
the  place  had  never  been  sufficient  to  defray  the  heavy  cost 
of  maintaining  a  kitchen:  without  the  loss  from  which  the 
place  could  easily  be  made  to  pay,  as  drink  orders  had  always 
been  numerous  and  were  three-quarters  profit,  sometimes  more. 

But  Noel  had  never  imagined  that  this  was  the  door  to  for- 
tune. A  modest  profit  on  his  investment  was  all  he  had  hoped 
for.  The  existence  of  the  door,  however,  by  one  of  those 
curious  paradoxes  which  give  life  its  unfathomable  aspect, 
soon  made  it  impossible  for  Curate's  to  handle  Noel's  numer- 
ous food  orders  and  provide  promptly  for  its  own  customers ; 
so  he  was  forced  to  provide  his  own  kitchen,  after  all.  Forced  ? 
It  was  now  the  pleasure  of  his  life;  for  it  added  another  ten 
per  cent,  to  his  already  doubled  expectations. 

But,  although  his  waiters  no  longer  needed  the  door,  unless 
it  was  to  procure  some  unusual  brand  of  liquor  or  cigars, 


THE  PARASITE  31 

it  still  remained  in  constant  use.  To  close  it,  in  fact,  would 
have  been  to  close  Fortune  out.  One  girl  had  learned  of 
the  door  soon  after  Noel  opened,  and  had  used  it  to  enter 
the  place — bareheaded,  uncloaked,  ungloved,  surprising  every- 
one— to  spend  some  precious  minutes  with  the  object  of  her 
affections,  while  the  other  man,  smiling  in  the  fatuous  belief 
that  he  had  made  a  conquest,  was  at  that  moment  in  Curate's, 
imagining  she  had  gone  to  rearrange  her  hair  or  powder  her 
nose.  Within  the  week  hundreds  knew  of  the  door :  a  knowl- 
edge they  disseminated  among  their  kind,  carefully  concealing 
it  from  any  others.  Thus,  on  following  nights,  Noel  was 
covering  serving  tables  with  tablecloths  and  putting  in  extra 
and  incongruous  chairs. 

That  week  Noel  began  the  practice  of  locking  his  front 
door,  admitting  no  one  from  the  street  farther  than  the  cloak- 
room vestibule  until  he  had  lifted  the  curtain  and  scanned 
his  would-be  patron's  face:  a  proceeding  that  enabled  him  to 
plead  a  lack  of  vacant  tables  to  any  whose  presence  would 
complicate  affairs  for  those  already  within. 

And  so,  as  he  seemed  to  be  making  a  determined  effort 
to  keep  the  public  out,  it  used  all  endeavors  to  crowd  his  place. 
To  be  admitted  became  somewhat  of  a  cachet,  a  certificate 
of  standing  in  Subterranea.  He  was  careful  to  exclude,  at 
least,  all  whose  personal  appearance  did  not  indicate  prosperity. 
Nor  was  this  enough ;  sartorial  splendor  must  be  supplemented 
by  adequate  spending  or  one  soon  lost  honor :  Noel  could  pick 
and  choose  now,  and  he  did. 

Arcy  found  favor  in  his  eyes  on  this,  his  first  appearance, 
and  of  the  crowd  in  the  cloak-room  that  awaited  Noel's  pleas- 
ure was  the  first  to  be  admitted.  The  ex-waiter-captain  con- 
gratulated himself  on  his  discernment  when  his  new  patron 
was  immediately  hailed  by  that  ornamental  fixture  of  his  res- 
taurant— Mr.  Milton  Lazard:  deep  in  whose  debt  Noel  was, 
for  Lily  Lamotte  was  among  the  first  who  had  used  the  door 


32  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

in  the  wall.  Since  then  Lazard  had  herded  in  from  other 
cafes  many  friends  and  associates.  These  had  become  Noel's 
steadfast  patrons:  entering  around  midnight,  remaining  until 
dawn;  hence  calling  themselves  "The  Breakfast  Club."  For 
them,  even  on  the  busiest  nights,  the  southeast  corner  was 
always  reserved. 

Arcy  was  insensible  to  the  honor  of  Lazard's  recognition, 
mentally  anathematizing  Toya  for  forcing  him  to  identify  him- 
self in  public  with  such  a  person.  He  approached,  therefore, 
somewhat  sulkily. 

"Mr.  Einstein,  Mr.  Brown,  Mr.  Carey,  Mr.  Satterlee,  Mr. 
Cotterel — my  friend,  Arcy  MacTea.  As  fine  a  lot  of  gentle- 
men as  ever  scuttled  a  ship,  my  boy.  Just  as  harmless  as  a 
lot  of  baby  rattlesnakes.  You  can  trust  them  with  anything 
you've  got  if  it's  nailed  down.  Take  your  hand  out  of  the 
gentleman's  watch  pocket,  Kid  Einstein.  Always  ask  a  man 
for  the  time  and  see  if  he  won't  give  it  to  you  before  you 
try  to  take  it.  That's  what  they  call  etiquette,  you  black- 
muzzled,  cliff-dwelling  kike.  Although  I  know  some  men 
so  mean  they  wouldn't  let  you  set  your  clock  by  their  watch : 
closer  than  the  next  second.  Take  out  your  glass  eye,  Carey, 
and  do  a  trick  for  the  gentleman.  Hurry,  hurry,  hurry,"  he 
bellowed  in  the  tone  of  a  circus  barker;  "the  show  is  now 
going  on,  on  the  inside.  The  Chandelier  Brothers  will  jump 
from  chandelier  to  chandelier — through  the  eye  of  a  needle — 
without  the  aid  of  a  net.  On  your  left,  the  wild  man  is  about 
to  devour  a  raw  Jew."  He  bent  down  as  though  addressing 
from  a  platform  some  passers-by  below.  "How  did  you  like 
it,  sir?"  "Rotten,"  the  invisible  one  was  supposed  to  answer. 
Lazard  raised  his  voice  to  the  barker's  bellow  again:  "You 
hear  what  the  gentleman  says — 'Best  show  on  the  Island.' 
That's  what  they  all  say.  Only  a  nickel — half  a  dime." 

You  are  to  imagine  this  monologue  punctuated  by  bursts 
of  wild  laughter  and  the  applause,  not  only  of  his  companions 


THE  PARASITE  33 

but  of  many  parties  at  nearby  tables.  Lazard,  conscious  of  his 
conspicuousness,  made  his  voice  reach  as  many  as  possible, 
succeeding  sometimes  in  engaging  the  attention  of  all  present; 
for  it  was  an  intimate  room ;  narrow,  low-roofed ;  its  patrons 
crowded  together  on  leather  seats  along  the  walls,  the  center 
cleared  for  dancing.  But  above  the  din  and  bustle  Lazard's 
bellow  rose  whenever  he  considered  he  was  about  to  voice 
some  iconoclasm  that  would  add  to  the  reputation  he  coveted : 
that  of  "the  man  who  owned  Broadway,"  "the  human  night- 
key  of  New  York,"  "the  man  who  locks  the  town  up" — such 
descriptions  bestowed  by  reporters  being  coveted  by  semi- 
celebrities  of  the  Nightless  Lane. 

Lazard  had  learned  since  their  meeting  that  Arcy  was  a 
reporter:  hence  the  altered  attitude;  and,  despite  his  dislike, 
Arcy  was  amused.  Quite  a  different  person  this  from  the 
scowling,  snarling,  unshaven  satyr  of  the  Shadenham.  His 
smile  was  agreeable,  his  teeth  evenly  matched  and  of  an 
extraordinary  whiteness;  his  gestures  and  inflections  were 
those  of  one  with  a  genuine  talent  for  clowning.  Arcy  laughed 
as  loudly  as  any,  and,  refusing  the  proffered  refreshment,  in- 
sisted upon  paying  his  initiation  fee.  To  which  Lazard  ob- 
jected loudly,  tossing  down  a  yellowback  and  challenging  the 
waiter  to  dare  receive  any  other:  an  openhandedness  he  took 
care  should  ever  be  overlooked ;  the  impression  going  abroad 
that  he  was  both  liberal  to  a  fault  and  annoyed  by  a  surplus 
of  wealth.  Even  his  intimates  were  not  allowed  to  imagine 
Lily  Lamotte  in  any  way  responsible. 

"A  good  little  pal,"  he  would  assert  patronizingly ;  "a  good 
little  pal.  I  know  I  can  get  half  of  everything  she's  ever 
got — only  the  poor  little  kid  never  has  anything  by  the  time 
she  gets  the  bad  news  from  the  rent  man.  And  say,  I'd  stop 
the  bad  news  myself ;  but  as  soon  as  you  start  giving  women 
anything  you're  gone.  Go  to  'em  clean  as  a  snowbird  and 
they  fall.  But  if  you  start  handing  shed  and  doughnut  sugar, 


34  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

they  start  handing  it  to  some  nice  boy  they'd  like  to  see  get 
along.  Just  mother  instinct,  I  guess.  Take  care  of  them 
and  they  think  they're  cheated.  But  let  'em  give  you  anything, 
no  matter  how  petty  larceny  it  is,  and  it  makes  'em  happy. 
They  think  they're  supporting  somebody.  That's  why  it's  all 
banked  in  my  name.  If  I  let  her  know  she's  drawing  fifty  a 
month  more  than  she  hands  me,  she'd  blow  me  to-morrow.  I 
even  kid  her  I'm  using  some  of  it.  ..." 

Which  plausible  explanation  with  a  condescending  loftiness 
of  delivery  belittled  the  insignificant  Lily  Lamotte  and  exalted 
her  amiable  consort.  The  reputation  of  being  an  object  of  the 
affections  of  one  for  the  pleasure  of  whose  presence  others 
paid  liberally  was  coveted  by  Lazard ;  but  he  resented  bitterly 
its  concomitant  reputation — resented  it  because  it  gave  rise  to 
the  inference  that  his  own  splendid  talents  were  unable  to 
provide  plenteously. 

Fearing  that  such  an  ill  impression  might  have  been  made 
upon  Arcy,  Lazard  now  set  earnestly  to  work  to  remove  this 
and  replace  it  with  one  of  a  gentleman  adventurer,  a  soldier 
of  fortune,  a  romantic  figure  spinning  cobwebs  of  conspiracy, 
a  hero  of  splendid  hazards.  Beads  of  perspiration  stood  out 
on  his  countenance,  as  he  concentrated  on  comments  and  nar- 
ratives at  once  humorous  and  thrilling — in  which  he  was  always 
the  central  figure. 


It  was  to  the  possession  of  this  narrative  ability  that  Mil- 
ton Lazard  owed  a  laborless  life.  This  accomplishment  had 
early  discovered  for  him  his  natural  element:  where  young 
women  passed  the  hat  among  the  listeners;  finding,  after  one 
or  two  physical  mishaps,  it  was  less  hazardous  to  impose  upon 
females.  Equipped  with  a  faithful  companion,  then,  he  fol- 
lowed her  fortune  through  the  mining  camps  of  the  West; 
until  that  section  knew  him  too  well.  Followed  one  experience 


THE  PARASITE  35 

with  melted  tar  plus  eiderdown,  and  an  enforced  ride  astride 
the  narrowest  of  seats;  forcing  him  to  seek  the  protection  of 
the  less  barbarous  East,  accompanied  by  the  prettiest  (and 
youngest)  of  his  many  admirers. 

His  one  talent,  like  his  deformed  body,  was  part  of  an 
atavism:  his  paternal  ancestor  some  centuries  removed  having 
worn  cap  and  bells  in  the  service  of  a  feudal  Fleming,  who, 
in  the  interest  of  mirth,  had  ordered  that  the  illegitimate  child 
of  one  of  his  serfs  should  be  deliberately  maimed  in  childhood 
that  he  might  be  forced  to  adopt  the  calling  of  jester  and  tale- 
teller: Sieur  Huon  shrewdly  guessing  that  a  love  child,  by  so 
splendid  a  young  animal  as  the  serf  girl,  would  inherit  to  the 
full  the  talents  of  his  father — a  wandering  troubadour,  jong- 
leur, Rabelaisian- Villonesque  poet. 

Always  there  is  some  explanation  for  such  monstrosities 
as  Milton  Lazard :  the  sins  of  "humanity"  are  visited  upon  the 
"civilization"  that  permits  them.  Hedged  about  by  powerful 
lords  and  their  ladies,  the  terrible  pain  that  Sir  Huon's  wanton 
cruelty  had  caused  to  torture  the  unhappy  jester  must  be 
crushed  down,  hidden  from  the  sight  of  men.  But  the  hate 
and  malice  it  had  engendered  had  been  too  strong  to  die  un- 
expressed: at  intervals  the  jester's  family  tree  bore  gallows 
fruit;  even  to  the  twelfth  and  twentieth  generation.  But  it 
had  not  been  until  Milton  Lazard  that  the  exact  portrait  of. 
the  wretched  jongleur's  son,  save  for  the  humped  back,  was 
repainted:  the  huge  head,  the  puny  legs,  undersized  feet  and 
hands.  His  nature  was  that  same  strange  mixture  of  fear 
and  hate,  cowardice  and  cunning;  he  had  the  same  ability  to 
make  jests  when  there  were  curses  in  his  heart:  he  deferred 
to  the  strong  and  tortured  the  weak.  All  men  and  women 
were,  to  him,  created  for  but  one  purpose:  that  they  might 
be  of  advantage  to  him.  And  his  ambition  was  to  lead  a  life 
of  laborless  ease.  To  him,  men  who  won  success  by  work 
were  not  admirable  but  laughable. 


36  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

It  was  a  pernicious  doctrine  he  preached;  but  it  had  the 
same  doubtful  merit  of  flashy  wit  that  the  quips  and  quirks 
of  the  jester  had;  who  always  chose  sacred  subjects  for  his 
highest  flights.  And  there  is  that  in  men,  especially  young 
men,  that  fears  protest  lest  it  show  a  conventional  viewpoint ; 
they  fear  being  conventional  more  than  being  wrong.  Certain 
aspects  of  life  are  revealed  to  the  clever  youngster  as  other 
than  what  they  have  been  taught ;  so  that  it  is  easier  to  assume 
that  hypocrisy  alone  shields  all  other  aspects  than  to  discover 
the  truth.  Moreover,  it  is  easier  to  be  brilliant  at  blaming 
than  at  praising. 

Arcy  MacTea  being  at  this  earlier  stage  of  mental  develop- 
ment, it  was  not  long  before  Lazard  had  removed  his  dislike : 
even,  as  the  drinks  circulated,  caused  him  to  be  so  eager  for 
the  praise  of  a  high  priest  of  the  super-knock  that  he  ven- 
tured into  those  realms  of  conversation  forbidden  to  the 
discreet.  .  .  . 

VI.  HAWKS  AT  HOME 

"WHAT  were  you  doing,  sitting  there  and  laughing  with 
that  Milton  Lazard  ?"  demanded  little  Miss  Toya  sharply.  "Do 
you  want  people  to  talk  about  us  the  way  they  talk  about  him 
and  Lily?  And  after  what  you  said  to  me!  And  there's 
three  girls  from  our  show  in  Noel's.  To-morrow  they'll  have 
it  all  over  the  theater !" 

"That's  rich,"  returned  Arcy,  somewhat  unsteadily — the 
night  air  had  not  yet  blown  away  the  fumes  of  many  Scotches. 
"You  telling  everybody  you  do  what  I  tell  you  to  do  and  what 
a  smart  fellow  you've  got,  and  then  blaming  me  if  you  get  a 
bad  reputation :  I've  warned  you  hundreds  of  times.  And  who 
asked  me  to  wait  in  Noel's?  What  kind  of  people  did  you 
expect  me  to  meet  there?  Would  I  have  known  Lazard  at  all 
if  you  hadn't  introduced  us?" 


THE  PARASITE  37 

Toya  had  no  answer  for  so  many  arguments.  If  she  had 
been  sufficiently  gifted  to  voice  her  subconscious  thought,  her 
reply  would  have  been  that  his  business  was  to  rectify  a  flighty, 
inexperienced  girl's  mistakes,  not  to  add  to  them. 

Unless  one  counts  those  girls  unfortunate  enough  to  be 
infatuated  with  him — in  which  cases  he  had  always  taken  care 
to  select  grossly  ignorant  or  brainless  ones — Lazard  had  less 
success  in  convincing  women  than  men.  Women,  if  they  are 
not  blinded  by  passion  or  vanity,  seldom  err  in  detecting  base- 
ness of  character;  seldom  fail  to  be  aware  of  the  hall-mark 
even  if  they  do  not  appreciate  it.  It  is  only  that  their  sense 
of  logic,  being  a  scant  half-century  old,  has  not  been  suffi- 
ciently developed  to  give  synthetic  reasons  for  results;  and 
this  is  to  their  benefit  rather  than  to  their  hurt;  for  one  cun- 
ning of  argument  may  twist  to  his  will  the  thoughts  of  those 
who  put  their  faith  in  it;  while  a  woman,  whom  the  subtlest 
philosophy  influences  not  at  all — in  personal  matters  at  least — 
is  not  turned  by  it  from  her  original  impressions  and  pur- 
poses. So — 

"I  don't  like  that  Milton  Lazard.  He's  no  good.  Please 
don't  be  seen  out  with  him,  Arcy."  Finding  her  anger  unavail- 
ing, she  had  descended  to  a  more  dependable  weapon.  "You 
know  he  doesn't  like  you.  He's  jealous  of  you :  he  hates  every- 
body who's  smarter  than  he  is.  If  he's  so  bright,  why's  Lily 
doing  what  she's  doing?  Terrible:  an  awful-nice  girl  like 
that — if  you  get  her  by  herself.  But  he  has  such  a  bad  influ- 
ence on  her.  I  wish  he'd  go  and  marry  that  rich  old  woman, 
Mrs.  Lang.  Lily  would  get  along  all  right  then — " 

"Lazard  hasn't  got  anything  to  do  with  what  Lily  is,"  re- 
turned Arcy  irritably.  "He's  a  fool,  smart  fellow  as  he  is, 
to  stick  around  with  that  kind  of  a  girl.  What  was  she  when 
he  met  her?  Just  the  same.  Wasn't  even  bluffing  at  the 
stage  ..." 

"Lily  didn't  tell  me  she  supports  him,"  defended  Toya 


38  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

indignantly :  "I  just  know.  She's  always  saying  he  makes  his 
own  money,  too.  But  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Arcy ;  supposed  to 
be  smart  and  everything  ..." 

"It's  a  good  thing  I've  got  a  regular  job  and  people  see 
me  working  every  day,"  returned  Arcy,  "or  I  suppose  they'd 
be  saying  the  same  about  me.  I  tell  you,  Lazard's  made  all 
kinds  of  money.  He  don't  care  about  her.  He's  only  sorry 
for  her,  afraid  she'll  commit  suicide  or  something  if  he  breaks 
away.  He  can't  change  her  any.  She's  got  no  ambition.  She 
don't  want  to  study  like  you  do.  ..." 

Toya  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  ceased  to  argue,  for 
Arcy  had  taught  her  that  what  she  considered  argument  failed 
to  convince  anyone ;  but  her  vision  of  Lazard  was  unalterable. 
"Well — you'll  see,"  she  could  not  forbear  adding,  however, 
as  they  entered  Arcy's  rooms. 

Arcy  had  a  studio  apartment  overlooking  the  rector's  gar- 
den of  an  Episcopal  church  which,  save  for  the  ivy-covered 
brick  wall  which  hid  the  sidewalk,  gave  him  an  uninterrupted 
view  of  lower  Fifth  Avenue.  Here  it  was  like  London.  The 
houses  had  that  beauty  architecture  alone  cannot  give — age 
must  assist.  There  were  polished  brass  knockers  on  white 
paneled,  mahogany  or  rosewood  doors;  pilasters  that  had  the 
grace  of  ancient  Doric  columns,  spiral  handrails  of  green 
bronze  or  of  brass,  ornamenting  short  flights  of  long,  thin 
marble  doorsteps.  In  the  basements  below,  in  the  drawing- 
rooms  above,  were  window  boxes  of  brightly  colored  flowers 
or  of  creeping  plants;  on  either  side  of  doorways  closely 
clipped  dwarf  evergreens  in  miniature  tubs,  or  else,  where 
there  were  wooden  doorsteps,  more  oblong  boxes  of  flowers. 
More  than  one  house  was  set  amid  rosetrees,  hydrangeas, 
chrysanthemums  and  other  hardy  growths.  Only  the  rector's 
garden  was  walled:  this,  which  Arcy's  windows  overlooked, 
was  a  long,  pleasant  lawn,  a  fountain  in  its  center  bordered 
with  flowers,  in  the  pool  of  which  swam  gold  and  silver  fishes. 


Here  the  nurses  of  a  creche,  where  workingwomen  left  their 
children  for  the  day,  were  allowed  to  bring  their  small  charges 
to  roll  amid  garlic  and  buttercups  and  clover — for  it  was  like 
a  piece  of  meadow  brought  intact  on  a  magic  carpet.  Robins 
and  swallows,  in  spring,  nested  in  the  ivy  or  under  the  quaint 
chimney  pots  of  the  old  rectory;  and  these,  no  doubt,  had 
brought  the  pollen  of  those  growths  of  the  open  country. 
Occasionally  catbirds  came,  blue  jays,  too,  and  in  an  old  hollow 
tree  a  swarm  of  bees  had  recently  installed  a  queen. 

For  these  sights  and  sounds  Arcy  had  been  willing  to  dis- 
burse almost  half  his  weekly  wage :  and  before  meeting  Toya, 
had  spent  much  time  seated  at  the  large  bay  window,  watching 
and  listening,  pen  in  hand,  to  record  the  inspiration  of  the 
moment :  Arcy's  ambition  had  been  the  production  of  historical 
novels ;  and  in  this  Old  World  corner,  staring  at  stained-glass- 
windows  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  mellow  pipe  organ  roll- 
ing forth  Gregorian  chants,  his  blood  had  been  stirred  by  the 
exploits  of  his  dead  and  gone  heroes,  and  finding  the  inspira- 
tion he  sought,  he  had  written  steadily  and  well. 

Toya's  advent  had  changed  all  that.  He  had  not  added  a 
chapter  to  his  novel  since  their  mating.  Yet  still  his  surround- 
ings served  a  purpose.  Coming  down  here  away  from  the 
tawdriness  of  Longacre,  she  had  been  impressed  and  had  begun 
to  realize  there  might  be  reasons  after  all  why  he  would  not 
readily  marry  her ;  even  though  his  infatuation  had  swept  away 
most  of  his  resolutions.  And  she,  being  wise  beyond  her  years, 
had  ceased  to  speak  daily  of  marriage ;  finding  a  safer  road  to 
its  achievement  by  adopting  new  tactics. 

"It  isn't  as  if  you'd  taken  up  with  one  of  those  big  cats," 
she  had  purred ;  "it's  only  a  little  kitten,  and  her  papa  can  teach 
her  anything  he  wants  her  to  know,  can't  he?"  Here  she 
nestled  closer  to  him.  "And  he  can  make  her  an  educated 
kitten  that  he'll  be  proud  of,  too.  'Cause  it's  a  smart  little 
kitten — it's  a  smart  little  kitten,"  she  crowed.  "Isn't  it,  papa  ?" 


40  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Which,  were  chroniclers  honest,  is  a  saner  speech  than 
most  endearing  ones  exchanged  between  infatuated  young 
couples.  And  it  had  delighted  Arcy.  "That  is  a  smart  kitten," 
he  approved ;  "and  her  papa  will  see  it  gets  its  little  education." 
Neither  seemed  greatly  in  earnest,  but  neither  had  ever  been 
more  so.  On  the  following  day,  Arcy  had  laid  out  a  course  of 
reading  for  her,  and  had  taken  her  to  a  retired  governess  who 
was  to  superintend,  and  assist  in,  her  study.  Singing  lessons 
had  followed.  The  reformation  in  clothes  had  come  before 
that.  All  of  which  had  so  impressed  the  great  Bob  Ledyard 
that,  when  he  had  put  on  "The  Bonbon  Girl,"  he  had  promoted 
little  Miss  Thiodolf  to  a  small  part.  And  where  J.  Tubman 
Leeminster  had  once  pursued  perfunctorily,  an  amateur  col- 
lector after  a  pretty  butterfly,  he  was  now  as  grimly  determined 
as  an  enthusiastic  naturalist  chasing  the  rarest  of  Venus  moths. 

It  was  on  the  subject  of  Leeminster  (his  favorite  griev- 
ance) that  Arcy  spoke  when  they  sat  before  the  small  studio 
fire  that  the  early  autumn  chill  had  rendered  necessary.  "Here 
we  could  have  been  home  long  ago,"  he  said  gloomily.  "How 
am  I  ever  going  to  get  my  novel  done  if  I  have  to  wait  for  you 
three  nights  a  week  before  I  eat  my  supper?" 

"But  you  used  to  say  you  didn't  enjoy  it  unless  I  was  there," 
she  reproached :  "you  don't  care  for  me  like  you  did  at  first. 
That's  what  I  get  for  giving  myself  to  you.  You're  beginning 
to  get  tired  of  me.  If  I'd  held  you  off  the  way  I've  done  with 
all  the  others — " 

"O-oh,"  returned  an  irritated  Arcy,  "it's  because  I  do  care. 
It  just  makes  me  wild  to  think  a  fellow  like  that  has  the  power 
to  'command  your  presence'  just  like  a  king.  .  .  ." 

"But  think  of  what  the  jewelry  alone  is  worth,  darling 
dear,"  the  girl  pleaded,  slipping  down  to  the  hearth  rug  and 
resting  her  head  on  his  knee.  "Suppose  I'm  out  of  a  job.  Or 
you  are.  Or  if  either  of  us  is  sick — or  anything;  we'd  have 
these.  And  he's  going  to  give  me  a  big  cabochon  ruby  some 


THE  PARASITE  41 

time  this  month.  I  know  his  little  game.  He's  getting  ready 
to  tell  me  he's  got  to  marry  that  Hefflefinger  girl.  How  did 
you  find  out  about  her,  Arcy  ?  You  never  told  me." 

"It  wasn't  printed  because  old  man  Hefflefinger  owns  stock 
in  one  of  the  big  newspaper  syndicates ;  and  he  doesn't  want 
the  engagement  announced  until  everything's  settled.  Those 
big  newspaper-owners  swap  favors,  suppressing  news  if  it  isn't 
too  big.  The  lawyers  are  fighting  it  out.  Leeminster's  attor- 
neys want  too  much :  the  marriage  settlement,  you  know.  Lee- 
minster  won't  take  any  chances  with  papa-in-law's  generosity. 
He  knows  the  viewpoint  of  the  plain  people  about  a  husband 
who  lives  on  his  wife.  He's  seen  too  many  things  happen  to 
other  men  in  his  set.  The  purse  strings  make  the  monkey 
jump:  if  the  wife  holds  'em,  he  must  jump  her  way.  Can't 
get  anything  to  spend  unless  he  explains  what  it's  for.  And 
where  would  he  have  the  money  to  buy  you  cabochon  rubies 
then?  He's  only  getting  it  now — at  loan-shark  interest — on 
the  strength  of  his  coming  marriage." 

"He  was  telling  me  that  to-night,"  said  Toya  indignantly. 
"He  thought  he  was  being  very  smart — said  there  was  a  rich 
girl  who  wanted  to  marry  him,  and  he  was  letting  people  think 
he  was  going  to,  because  the  money-lenders  would  let  him  have 
lots  of  money  that  way.  I  wasn't  to  let  on  he  was  going  to 
marry  me.  That  would  ruin  everything." 

"You  bet  it  would,"  agreed  Arcy:  "the  girl,  of  course,  is 
going  into  this  with  her  eyes  open :  money  for  social  position. 
But  she's  making  her  old-fashioned  father  think  she  really 
loves  Leeminster,  and  that  he  loves  her.  Only  his  people  won't 
recognize  the  match  and  call  on  her  unless  Leeminster's  put  on 
his  feet  and  made  independent.  The  old  man  swallowed  that, 
somehow — so  the  society  woman  who  gives  our  society 
reporter  his  inside  stuff  says — another  broke  aristocrat.  But  if 
Pop  Hefflefinger  ever  found  out  Leeminster  didn't  care  for 
his  daughter,  didn't  intend  to  be  any  more  of  a  husband  to  her 


42  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

than  he  could  help — Lord !  Pop's  after  a  grandson  and  heir, 
and  if  he  thought  he  would  get  one  only  so  that  the  kid's 
parents  could  lay  hands  on  the  rest  of  his  fortune,  the  thing 
'ud  be  o-double-f,  off.  .  .  .  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Kit- 
tens?"— for  Toya  had  begun  with  a  ripple,  ending  with  a 
spasm  of  laughter. 

"Suppose  he  saw  the  letters  Tubby  wrote  me,"  she  finally 
elucidated.  Arcy  nodded.  No  glimmering  of  what  he  was  to 
do  as  yet  lit  up  the  matter  of  those  letters. 

"Well,  I  should  say  so,"  he  agreed.  "I  was  just  thinking 
something  like  that  to-night  while  I  was  waiting  for  you.  About 
twelve  girls  in  evening  clothes  without  any  wraps  or  anything 
came  in  and  sat  down  with  some  fellow  for  a  while  and  then 
went  off  again.  Lazard  explained  to  me  about  the  door  in  the 
wall :  told  me  who  the  girls  were.  I  got  to  thinking.  The  men 
those  girls  had  left  in  Curate's  all  had  big  fortunes.  Not  one 
could  afford  to  get  his  name  in  the  papers  with  that  of  a 
chorus  girl.  Yet,  when  one  throws  a  girl  down — as  they 
always  do— if  the  girl  tries  to  get  anything  they  call  it  black- 
mail, and  then  lawyers  scare  her  so  she  shuts  up  and  for- 
gets it—" 

"Serves  her  right  for  giving  in  to  a  man  she  doesn't  love," 
yawned  Toya,  uninterested  in  the  affairs  of  her  own  sex. 
"You'd  have  done  the  same  if  you  hadn't  met  me,"  accused 
Arcy.  She  denied  this  indignantly;  and  the  colloquy  veered 
to  more  personal  grounds,  became  a  minor  quarrel.  Which 
ended  as  such  affairs  generally  do  in  interchanges  of  endear- 
ments quite  too  silly  for  a  place  on  a  printed  page — even  in  a 
day  of  fiction  less  mentally  nourishing  than  the  confectionery 
it  endeavors  to  imitate. 


THE   PARASITE  43 


VIII.  BLACKGUARDS  AND  BLACKMAIL 

ARCY  found  himself  wakeful  that  night,  so  in  that  en- 
chanted realm  just  preceding  slumber,  where  imagination 
becomes  reality,  saw  himself  addressing  the  young  men  to  visit 
whom  those  twelve  girls  had  come  through  the  door  in  the 
wall.  He  did  not  fancy  their  lack  of  character  in  permitting 
the  girls  to  worship  both  Eros  and  Mammon;  but  his  own 
complaisance  in  the  matter  of  Toya's  suppers  with  Leeminster 
led  him  to  make  excuses  for  them.  He  saw  himself  urging 
them  to  advise  the  girls  to  save  tangible  evidence  in  the  shape 
of  letters,  telegrams,  canceled  cheques  and  so  forth  and  with 
them  regain  their  independence ;  arranging  the  matter  through 
a  lawyer's  hands  in  a  perfectly  legal  way.  It  was  then  that 
there  occurred  to  him  the  significance  of  Leeminster's  letters 
to  Toya :  letters  written  during  the  "try-out"  of  "The  Bonbon 
Girl,"  to  various  outland  theaters.  They  had  already  served 
one  purpose :  reading  them  had  convinced  Arcy  of  the  absolute 
innocence  of  Toya's  relationship,  for  Leeminster  wrote  as 
respectfully  as  to  a  girl  of  his  own  class. 

Arcy,  who  possessed  an  uncommon  memory,  now  vis- 
ualized one  or  two.  They  were  the  sort  of  letters  any  girl 
would  be  proud  to  receive  from  a  fiance.  .  .  .  Arcy  chuckled 
hugely.  Toya  could  have  what  he  coveted  for  her :  a  finishing 
course  at  the  Paris  conservatory,  emerging  therefrom  polished, 
accomplished,  possessed  of  savoir  faire,  fit  to  adorn  the  stage 
of  any  country.  With  her  beauty  she  need  never  return  to 
America  unless  she  chose. 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  awakening  the  girl  and 
acquainting  her  with  her  good  fortune.  But,  he  reflected,  it 
was  as  well  to  be  silent  even  to  her :  she  would  find  it  difficult 
to  avoid  crowing  over  her  triumph,  surrounded  each  night  by 
envious,  or  admiring,  acquaintances,  ten  girls  in  her  dressing- 


44  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

room  alone.  No,  it  would  wait  until  the  announcement  of  Miss 
Hefflefinger's  engagement  to  Mr.  J.  Tubman  Leeminster.  Then 
the  bombshell,  before  Leeminster  could  play  his  hand — which 
Arcy  imagined  would  be  to  tell  Toya  he  was  marrying  "Mae" 
only  to  gain  the  huge  settlement ;  after  which  he  would  behave 
so  badly  she  would  be  forced  to  divorce  him — "and — then — 
sweetheart  .  .  ."  Meanwhile,  although  a  cruel  fate  withheld 
his  name  from  her  for  a  brief  space,  were  they  not  truly  one 
in  divine  sight?  .  .  .  Not  original,  truly,  but  it  has  convinced 
millions,  will  convince  millions  more,  is  convincing  thousands 
at  this  moment.  To  Leeminster  it  meant  the  capture  of  the 
quarry  or  giving  up  the  chase. 

Early  on  the  following  day  Arcy  visited  Toya's  apartment, 
took  Leeminster's  letters  from  their  all-too-evident  hiding 
place,  and  in  her  name  hired  a  safe-deposit  vault  for  their  safe- 
keeping. Toya,  at  her  singing  lesson,  knew  nothing  of  it;  nor 
did  he  inform  her:  even  went  so  far  as  not  to  mention  again 
to  her  the  possibilities  the  girls  who  used  the  door  in  the  wall 
were  overlooking.  But,  finding  this  topic  ensured  attention  at 
Noel's,  he  spoke  upon  it  many  times  for  the  edification  of 
Lazard  and  others  of  the  patrons :  his  visits  to  their  rendezvous 
being  another  explanation  not  vouchsafed  Toya.  Her  dislike 
for  Lazard  permitted  no  common-sense  view  of  their  acquaint- 
ance. Now  and  again,  Arcy  had  an  uneasy  sentience  as  to  the 
superiority  of  her  intuition  over  his  logic — in  this  matter  at 
least. 

But  it  was  not  difficult  to  understand  the  attraction  Lazard 
had  for  such  as  Arcy.  There  were  many  others  not  of  Sub- 
terranea  to  be  found  in  his  company :  besides  the  reporters  for 
theatrical  journals,  several  actors,  a  poet,  a  writer  of  popular 
songs. 

In  none  did  he  inspire  that  friendship  which  is  the  wonder 
of  women.  None  were  solicitous  of  his  welfare,  none  would 
have  placed  their  purse  at  his  disposal  in  misfortune.  They 


THE  PARASITE  45 

sought  Noel's  as  audiences  seek  out  that  theater  advertised  as 
having  the  most  amusing  play.  Lazard  worked  hard  for  their 
laughter;  like  the  comedian  over  the  way  who  was  paid  his 
weight  in  gold  yearly,  he  came  to  his  evening's  performance 
rehearsed  and  ready. 

To  the  craftsman  in  humor,  who  must  grind  out  laughs  by 
the  yard,  Lazard's  method  would  have  been  apparent.  His  was 
not  spontaneous  humor:  he  worked  by  formula,  was  amusing 
only  on  certain  subjects.  A  detective  couldn't  catch  a  cold: 
couldn't  find  the  third  rail  in  the  Subway:  couldn't  locate  a 
Saratoga  trunk  in  a  hall  bedroom,  and  so  on,  ad  infinitum,  re- 
garding the  stupidity  of  detectives,  a  mere  reversal  of  the  aver- 
age belief  in  their  astuteness.  As  for  thieves,  another  class 
popularly  supposed  to  be  clever,  a  thief  couldn't  steal  a  bunch 
of  grass  from  Central  Park,  or  a  handful  of  water  out  of  the 
East  River  without  getting  an  icicle  down  his  back;  or  a 
swindler  couldn't  get  a  biscuit  for  a  barrel  of  flour.  Philan- 
thropists wouldn't  give  the  Lord  a  prayer ;  were  closer  than  the 
next  second.  A  woman  who  aimed  at  society — he  was  referring 
to  Mrs.  Carolus  Lang  at  the  time — "couldn't  get  into  the  Hay- 
market" — a  disorderly  resort — "with  a  letter  from  the  pope." 
.  .  .  The  latter  phrase  yields  a  second  key  to  his  method: 
an  irreverence  that  stopped  at  nothing.  There  were  no  sacred 
things  to  Milton  Lazard.  Once,  when  in  straits  more  desperate 
than  usual,  he  had  deemed  it  a  rare  jest  to  send  to  his  old 
mother  a  telegram  announcing  his  own  demise,  asking  for 
funds  to  save  the  body  from  the  Potter's  Field,  signing  the 
name  of  a  friend  who  received  the  money  and  who  shared  in 
the  spoils — the  mother,  on  an  annuity,  having  hitherto  refused 
to  pauperize  herself  further  after  yielding  for  years  to  his 
demands.  He  told  this  story  as  a  chef  d'ceuvre.  But  it  was  not 
until  after  Lazard's  betrayal  of  him  that  Arcy  subjected  his 
wit  to  analysis,  discovering  its  mechanics.  For  the  few  weeks 
of  their  acquaintance,  he  hardened  his  heart  to  any  inner 


46  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

whisperings  that  hinted  the  acquaintance  was  a  mistake.  And 
Lazard  played  his  fish  like  the  veteran  angler  he  was.  Such 
tales  as  his  imposition  upon  his  mother  were  reserved  for  other 
ears.  He  knew  Arcy's  limitations — as  he  would  have  described 
them — and  stayed  within  them;  for  he  was  anxious  that  the 
reporter  should  be  his  friend. 

Lazard  was,  even  then,  contemplating  marriage  with  Mrs. 
Carolus  Lang:  the  doctors'  reports  from  the  Cannes  chateau 
tending  toward  the  belief  that  the  veteran  financier  would  not 
live  out  the  year.  But  before  Lazard  could  be  married  again, 
he  needed  money  that  he  might  divorce  the  concert-hall  singer 
he  had  married  away  back  in  the  days  of  his  youth:  had 
married  because  she  was  just  then  the  rage  of  mining  camps 
and  earned  a  large  salary,  and  because  she  would  not  yield  it 
to  him  in  any  other  way.  But  she  had  soon  been  supplanted 
by  a  younger  and  better-looking  woman.  Now  she  was  singing 
in  the  moving-picture  houses,  and  needed  money  herself.  She 
had  written,  in  answer  to  his  question,  that  she  would  divorce 
him  if  he  paid  the  expenses  and  gave  her  a  thousand  dollars. 
He  had  not  yet  the  courage  to  approach  Mrs.  Lang  for  a  loan. 
After  succeeding  in  impressing  her  that  he  loved  her  un- 
selfishly, he  was  not  yet  sure  enough  of  her  to  dare  arouse  pos- 
sible suspicions  that  he  was  mercenary.  And  Lily's  earnings 
only  sufficed  for  expenses. 

It  was  in  Arcy  that  he  saw  his  salvation:  the  new  jewelry 
Toya  was  displaying  seemed  to  Lazard  but  the  natural  con- 
comitant of  cash  she  must  be  receiving.  He  judged  Arcy  by 
his  own  standards  and  could  not  believe  that  he  would  fail  to 
profit  by  his  wealthy  rival's  infatuation.  Himself,  he  would 
soon  have  driven  Leeminster  away  by  his  greediness.  "Never 
mind  the  junk,"  he  would  have  advised  her;  "say  you  need 
money  to  pay  the  mortgage  on  the  old  home — he'll  fall  for  any- 
thing." Which  was  the  reason  Lily  Lamotte  kept  her  admirers 
so  short  a  time. 


THE  PARASITE  47 

Lazard  had  not  the  foresight — even  in  his  unpleasant  occu- 
pation— to  play  the  waiting  game.  Like  most  potential  crim- 
inals, he  was  too  eager  for  immediate  rewards. 

His  resolution  to  ask  Arcy  for  half  of  the  necessary  money 
for  his  divorce — he  had  some  of  his  own,  laid  by  without  Lily's 
knowledge — was  hastened  by  the  events  immediately  following 
the  announcement  of  Leeminster's  engagement.  For,  on  that 
same  day,  Toya's  lawyers  approached  Leeminster's  with  photo- 
graphs of  the  letters,  the  announcement  of  a  breach-of-promise 
suit  to  be  instituted,  and  an  inquiry  as  to  whether  their  client 
wanted  to  compromise.  Leeminster  had  made  frantic  efforts 
to  reach  Toya  for  days  preceding  this  announcement;  but 
Arcy  had  deemed  it  wise  that  she  should  plead  sickness, 
absenting  herself  from  the  company  and  retiring  to  Atlantic 
City — so  that  Leeminster  might  imagine  the  suit  was  brought 
because  of  imagined  unfaithfulness.  Whereas,  if  she  would 
only  give  him  "a  chance  to  explain  .  .  ." 

As  he  failed  to  locate  her,  either  before  or  after  the 
announcement,  and  her  lawyers  were  obdurate :  either  he  must 
compromise  within  two  days  or  the  suit  would  be  filed — he 
compromised.  Knowing  old  Hefflefinger's  distaste  for  the 
engagement,  anyway,  the  absolute  certainty  of  his  fierce  denun- 
ciation and  the  severance  of  all  connections,  once  those  letters 
were  published,  he  had  recourse  to  the  twenty-per-cent.  men 
again  and  paid  over  one-tenth  of  the  hundred  thousand 
demanded. 

Needless  to  relate,  these  latter  developments  were  not 
recorded  in  the  public  press ;  and  all  might  have  gone  well  had 
Toya  been  able  to  restrain  the  delight  of  her  realized  ambitions. 
But  she  was,  as  has  been  stated,  in  the  company  of  many  other 
girls  each  evening:  ten  dressing-room  mates,  all  of  whom  she 
considered  her  dearest  friends.  They  knew,  of  course,  that 
she  was  giving  her  two  weeks'  notice,  was  departing  for  Paris ; 
and  as  they  pestered  her  with  questions  as  to  her  financial 


48  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

fairy,  presently  under  the  seal  of  confidence — she  being  wild 
with  desire  to  confide  in  somebody,  anyhow — she  told  several. 
And  Lily  Lamotte  carried  a  bitter  wail  to  Milton  Lazard. 

".  .  .  Always  telling  how  smait  you  are,  and  what  have 
you  ever  done  for  me?  And  running  that  Arcy  down.  And 
look  what  he's  done  for  her.  And  he  hasn't  made  her  cheap 
and  common  doing  it,  either,  although  you  say  they're  both 
liars.  Well,  if  they  are,  nobody  knows  it.  She  can  hold  her 
head  up.  And  she'll  come  back  and  be  a  star  after  studying 
in  Paris,  and  what'll  I  be?  A  tramp  just  like  I  am  now.  Oh, 
I  wish  I'd  listened  to  her.  Everybody  always  said  I  was  out  of 
my  class  being  with  you — " 

"You  bet  you  were,"  he  returned  savagely.  "But  you  used 
a  step-ladder,  not  a  diving-bell.  You  were  so  close  to  the 
ground  when  I  met  you,  you  couldn't  kick  a  duck  in  the  stom- 
ach." He  had  caught  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  now  slammed 
the  door  behind  him,  divided  between  elation  and  resentment : 
overjoyed  that  Arcy  should  have  no  excuse  now  for  refusing 
his  request,  hating  the  reporter  bitterly  for  having  succeeded 
where  he  had  failed — he  the  infinitely  superior  man.  He  had 
lost  caste  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  who  worshiped  him:  a  state 
of  affairs  that  might  terminate  in  his  losing  Lily  before  she 
ceased  to  be  necessary. 

But  his  egotism  did  not  permit  him  to  admit  even  the 
possibility  of  Arcy's  superiority.  He  laid  it  to  a  pestilential 
luck,  growling  viciously  at  the  man  who  was  to  benefit  him :  "a 
half-wit  if  ever  there  was  one,"  he  told  himself,  remembering 
Arcy's  "narrow-mindedness"  which  compelled  him  to  delete 
some  most  delectable  details  from  his  favorite  stories.  "Just 
a  lucky  little  sucker,"  he  added,  and  regained  the  stature  lost 
by  Lily's  harangue. 

He  was  again  the  patronizing  critic  of  the  universe  when 
he  entered  Noel's.  Arcy  was  not  there.  It  was  past  theater 
time  and,  since  Leeminster  had  been  eliminated,  he  came  only 


THE  PARASITE  49 

while  waiting  for  Toya  to  finish  her  performance,  over  an  hour 
before.  Lazard  repaired  to  other  and  more  seemly  restaurants ; 
but  the  pair  were  to  be  found  in  none  of  them.  And  then  he 
committed  a  grave  error  of  judgment :  he  should  have  remem- 
oered  Toya's  intense  dislike  for  him,  should  have  realized  Arcy 
would  not  advertise  his  acquaintance  with  him,  Lazard,  lest 
she  hear  of  it.  But  now  that  the  money  seemed  so  near,  he 
could  not  wait :  he  plunged  on  downtown  and  rang  Arcy's  door- 
bell. The  door  was  opened  by  Toya,  who,  with  the  sleeves  of 
her  shirt-waist  uprolled,  was  assisting  in  packing.  She  viewed 
Arcy  with  disapproval  when  he  welcomed  his  visitor. 

"We're  sailing  day  after  to-morrow,"  he  added.  "The 
Chartic.  Excuse  me  if  I  go  on  working,  will  you?  Have  a 
drink  and  a  cigarette,  or  a  cigar  —  they're  all  in  that  little 
cellaret  over  there."  Toya  had  not  greeted  him;  nor  did  she. 
Lazard  began  to  realize  he  had  chosen  an  inauspicious  time  and 
place.  "Didn't  know  you  were  busy,  old  pal,"  he  said,  taking 
up  his  hat  again.  "Meet  me  to-morrow  and  have  lunch,  will 
you  ?"  But  a  glance  at  Toya's  mutinous  face  told  him  he  had 
again  erred  and  that,  as  she  was  free  at  that  hour,  she  would 
make  it  too  uncomfortable  for  Arcy  to  keep  the  engagement. 
Therefore — 

"I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  a  moment  now — in  private,"  he 
said.  Strangely  enough,  Toya  seemed  to  disregard  this  en- 
tirely :  even  when  Arcy  excused  himself  she  did  not  turn.  He 
led  Lazard  into  the  bedroom  and  closed  the  door.  Simulating 
stress  and  suppressed  excitement,  Lazard  told  a  story  of  dire 
need :  a  loan  that  was  being  called  on  a  piece  of  property  worth 
ten  times  the  mortgage  value — he  would  give  him  a  duly  certi- 
fied mortgage  on  it  to-morrow.  Meanwhile  his  post-dated 
cheque  would  guarantee  Arcy  against  loss. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Arcy  would  have  refused;  but  he 
would  have  found  excuses  for  doing  so:  money  tied  up  just 
then,  would  arrange  it  next  day — thereafter  avoiding  Lazard 


50  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

until  sailing  day — such  moral  cowards  are  men.  But  he  was 
saved  the  lie.  Toya  had  thrown  open  the  door,  her  gesture 
dramatic.  "I'd  like  to  see  you  lend  any  money  to  that  poor 
thing !"  she  said ;  then  in  a  fulmination  of  scorn:  "I  thought  you 
were  up  to  some  tricks  so  I  listened.  What  do  you  take  us  for, 
Milton  Lazard?  Think  everybody's  a  softy  like  poor  Lily? 
I'd  rather  throw  it  in  the  river  than  lend  it  to  you.  You're  so 
smart,  why  don't  you  get  some  of  your  own?  Smart.'!  Yes,  to 
silly  Lilys  who  don't  know  anything !" 

Black  hate  bubbled  in  Lazard's  mouth ;  his  eyes  burned.  "I 
guess  if  that  Leeminster  knew  what  you  doped  up  on  him,  it 
might  cost  you  more'n  I  asked  for,"  he  said  thickly.  '  "They 
call  that  blackmail."  At  which  Arcy,  hitherto  annoyed  with 
Toya,  shifted  sides. 

"So  that's  the  kind  of  a  big  rat  you  are,  eh?"  he  asked. 
"That  closes  your  act  with  me."  As  Lazard  clenched  his  fists, 
MacTea  caught  up  the  firetongs.  In  these  strained  positions 
they  remained  a  moment:  until  Lazard,  with  an  ugly  laugh — 
for  he  had  thought  of  something  from  which  firetongs  were 
no  protection — turned  and  strode  rapidly  from  the  room. 

The  waiting  taxicab,  the  cost  of  which  would  have  been 
but  a  drop  in  the  ocean  of  what  he  had  expected  to  bear  away, 
now  irritated  him  beyond  measure;  so,  observing  that  the 
chauffeur  dozed  on  his  seat,  Lazard,  closing  the  house  door 
noiselessly,  hurried  away.  The  same  malice  that  had  caused 
the  misshapen  jester  to  visit  poisoners  for  potions  of  red  toad- 
stool, which,  dropped  into  the  drink  of  the  men-at-arms,  would 
punish  them  with  cruel  griping  pains  for  their  sport  at  his 
expense,  now  seethed  in  his  descendant.  That  Slavonic  servant 
girl  to  insult  him!  That  poor  little  lucky  sucker  to  call  him 
a  rat ! !  Why  hadn't  he  beaten  their  heads  in — he  could  have 
wrested  those  tongs  away  easily!  Not  willing  to  admit  to 
cowardice,  he  told  himself  it  was  because  he  had  a  better  way 
to  pay  his  score.  He  grinned,  he  sneered,  he  went  into  ecstasies 


THE  PARASITE  51 

of  gloating  .  .  ..  and,  long  past  midnight,  after  visiting 
three  clubs,  he  found  Mr.  J.  Tubman  Leeminster ;  who  received 
him  with  almost  as  distant  an  air  (Lazard's  exaggerated 
clothes  betrayed  him)  as  had  the  club  porter.  Which,  threaten- 
ing Lazard's  self-estimation  as  it  did,  almost  ruined  his  object 
by  sending  rudeness  to  his  tongue  tip.  He  controlled  himself, 
however,  and  spoke  without  emotion.  ...  If  someone 
had  deliberately  tricked  Mr.  Leeminster,  had  repaid  his  favors 
with  ingratitude,  entering  into  a  most  iniquitous  plot  against 
him  .  .  .  was  it  worth  Mr.  Leeminster's  while  to  know? 
He  referred  to  Miss  Thiodolf — to  cut  short  a  long  story.  Lee- 
minster darkened.  What  did  he  mean? 

"She  never  had  any  intention  of  marrying  you.  She  was  in 
love  with  another  fellow.  She  only  wanted  what  you  could 
give  her;  was  going  to  throw  you  over  anyway?  If  you  could 
prove  this,  could  you  get  back  that  blackmail  money?" 

"Blackmail?"  thundered  Leeminster. 

"What  else?"  asked  Lazard. 

A  moment  of  silence :  then,  unable  any  longer  to  command 
the  venom  that  his  brain  was  spewing  into  his  mouth,  Lazard 
became  vicious.  "She  had  a  fellow  long  before  she  ever  met 
you.  She  didn't  aim  so  high  as  you  before.  Any  kind  of  a 
man  would  do."  So  full  of  hate  was  he,  he  had  to  shut  his  lips 
tightly  lest  he  betray  himself.  It  is  not  certain  he  did  not 
believe  he  was  speaking  truth.  Were  that  heavy-headed  guy 
and  that  heavy-footed  girl  superior  to  him  and  his?  Getting 
himself  into  better  control,  he  piled  up  disgraceful  details  for 
Leeminster  to  hear :  realistic  and  convincing  details  culled  from 
ugly  personal  experience.  And  then  added  stories  read  in 
sensational  newspapers:  a  drugged  drink,  a  promise  of  mar- 
riage, a  horrible  awakening  .  .  . 

He  had  seen  how  solemnly  the  public  believed  such  tales: 
how  effective  they  were  in  arousing  editorial  indignation.  Him- 
self, he  had  not  found  it  worth  while  to  angle  for  innocent 


52  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

girls :  poverty  had  already  done  the  work  drugs  and  promises 
of  marriage  were  supposed  to  do;  but  poverty  did  not  make 
melodramatic  reading,  and  it  shifted  the  blame  onto  the  shoul- 
ders of  those  upright  ones  bent  on  suppressing  "the  traffic." 
Women  who  plead  poverty  for  an  excuse  did  not  get  the  sym- 
pathy, attention,  widespread  publicity  of  those  who  sobbed  of 
lurid  lures.  Lazard  knew  many  girls  who  had  discovered  that 
the  easiest  way  to  escape  legal  penalties  was  to  disclose  har- 
rowing details  of  organized  "cadet"  bands  of  which  they  were 
victims.  He,  even  more  unscrupulous,  had  no  hesitation  in 
adding  anything  that  would  put  Leeminster  in  a  rage,  that 
would  ensure  extreme  measures. 

"A  white  slave  ?"  gasped  that  young  gentleman ;  whose  taxi- 
cab  accounts  and  jewelry  had  made  a  few — as  the  phrase  has 
come  to  be  used.  But  he  had  done  so  quite  legitimately — foj 
his  royal  pleasure:  and  he  was  not  for  a  moment  to  be  con- 
fused with  those  abandoned  wretches  who  did  it  for  a  liveli- 
hood. 

Lazard  was  overjoyed.  "A  white  slave,"  he  confirmed, 
rejoicing  at  his  acumen  in  adding  the  effectual  melodrama.  "A 
white  slave,  that's  what."  He  was  possessed  of  his  ancestor's 
crafty  coward's  intuition:  had  seen  Leeminster  would  not  be 
receptive  to  any  evil  tales  of  Toya:  therefore  Arcy  should 
suffer  for  both.  "And  that's  the  fellow  who'll  be  spending 
your  money  in  Europe  in  a  week  or  so !" 

Leeminster  started  up,  kicked  6ver  an  ottoman,  stamped 
noisily  about  the  private  card-room.  Exhausting  his  vocabu- 
lary, he  sputtered :  in  wild  wrath,  he  banged  his  fist  on  a  little 
green-topped  table  which,  being  collapsible,  collapsed.  To  hear 
him  one  would  have  imagined  he  had  given  Toya  the  purest, 
most  unselfish  devotion.  If,  almost,  he  deceived  Lazard,  cer- 
tainly he  deceived  himself.  He  was  Sir  Galahad  the  Spotless, 
rescuer  of  maidens  from  monsters,  Perseus  arming  himself  to 
save  an  Andromeda  and  slay  a  dragon.  One  might  have 


THE  PARASITE  53 

believed  he  was  superior  to  wounded  vanity,  hurt  pride,  the 
loss  of  money,  the  desire  for  revenge.  For  the  moment,  it 
seemed  Miss  Hefflefinger's  fortune  might  go  hang:  mattered 
only  the  rescuing  of  "that  poor  little  girl."  .  .  . 

Lazard  knew  when  the  first  fury  had  spent  itself  Lee- 
minster  would  return  to  sanity;  realizing  on  the  way  that  no 
steps  could  be  taken  which  would  jeopardize  the  announced 
alliance.  Which  would  forbid  any  prosecution  for  blackmail, 
even  for  obtaining  money  under  false  pretenses.  The  blacker 
the  girl's  character  the  less  able  he  would  be  to  explain  satis- 
factorily those  letters.  This  became  apparent  to  Leeminster 
after  a  moment  of  calm  consideration.  Then  as  violently  as 
before,  "I'll  half  murder  that  blackguard,"  he  breathed  heavily. 
"Where  can  I  find  him  ?  Wait  till  I  go  home  and  get  a  horse- 
whip. Then  you  just  point  him  out  to  me.  I'll  settle  him." 

But  Lazard,  having  won,  was  suave.  "And  get  your  name 
in  the  papers  and  have  the  whole  story  come  out  ?  Let  the  law 
settle  him.  Oh,  I  know" — this  to  Leeminster's  impatient  wave 
of  the  hand — "I  know.  Not  by  any  lawsuit  or  prosecution. 
Isn't  this  fellow  a  danger  to  the  community?  And  haven't  I 
seen  you  around  a  lot  with  the  District  Attorney  ?"  He  paused, 
seeing  he  had  Leeminster's  attention.  "Now's  where  /  come 
in — I  don't  pretend  to  be  doing  all  this  for  nothing:  you 
wouldn't  believe  me,  anyway.  I  need  a  thousand.  If  I  show 
you  how  to  put  MacThyndall  away  for  two  years  without  mix- 
ing your  name  in  it  at  all,  you'd  give  me  a  thousand,  wouldn't 
you?" 

For  a  moment  Leeminster  did  not  answer:  sat  sneering, 
staring  with  fishy  eyes.  "I  suppose  you're  another  one  just 
like  him.  You've  been  friends  and  he  did  something  to  you — 
eh?"  Lazard,  crushing  down  a  desire  to  close  those  cold, 
superior  eyes,  rose  and,  having  studied  human  nature  over  the 
poker  table,  and  knowing  the  value  of  bluff,  made  for  the  door. 
Leeminster  stopped  him.  "I  don't  suppose  it  matters  -why," 


54  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

he  grumbled  grudgingly.  "Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief.  All 
right.  If  he  goes  away  you  get  your  thousand.  You'll  have 
to  take  my  word,"  he  added,  anticipating  correctly  the  request 
on  Lazard's  lips :  a  bitter  blow  to  the  parasite,  unprovided  for 
this,  having  been  too  occupied  with  his  hatred  to  think  of  it : 
imagining  the  money  paid  down  that  night. 

But  his  brain  was  quick  enough  in  such  matters.  "If  you 
don't  pay  me,  I'll  let  MacThyndall  know  the  whole  business 
anonymously,  and,  as  I  won't  figure  in  it,  you'll  get  into  trou- 
ble," he  said  insolently. 

"I  didn't  expect  one  of  your  stripe  to  understand  a  gentle- 
man may  do  anything  but  break  his  word — even  to  a  black- 
guard," was  Leeminster's  contemptuous  retort.  "Go  ahead." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Lazard,  after  a  sulky  pause,  "there's  a 
door  between  Curate's  and  Noel's.  While  you  fellows  are  in 
Curate's  with  these  girls,  they  make  some  excuse  and  slip  into 
Noel's  to  tell  the  fellows  there  when  they  can  get  rid  of  you." 

He  enjoyed  seeing  Leeminster  wince,  regained  some  of  his 
enthusiasm.  "She's  not  the  only  one.  There's  fifty  or  sixty 
girls  do  that.  This  MacThyndall's  been  talking  to  them,  telling 
them  to  go  off  somewhere  and  get  you  fellows  to  send  'em  tele- 
grams and  letters  so's  they'd  have  something  to  hold  you  up 
with  when  you  try  to  throw  them  down.  That's  wholesale 
blackmail,  ain't  it?  If  the  District  Attorney  lets  him  get  away 
with  this,  there'll  be  ten  cases  like  yours  a  month.  You  fellows 
won't  dare  to  have  Broadway  girls  at  all.  And  the  D.  A.'s  one 
of  your 'bunch.  Well,  do  you  know  how  the  D.  A.  or  the  chief 
handles  a  dangerous  guy  that  they  can't  get  anything  on?  They 
'frame'  him,  drop  a  gun  in  his  pocket:  then  they  have  some 
strong-arm  guy  pick  a  fight  with  him,  and  plant  the  gat  while 
they're  fighting,  lose  the  other  fellow  and  arrest  the  one  that's 
framed  for.  When  he's  searched  before  they  lock  him  up, 
they  find  the  cannon.  Pretty  neat,  eh  ?  I'd  like  to  have  a  dollar 
for  every  fellow  they've  put  away  like  that." 


THE  PARASITE  55 

Forgetting  his  grievance,  Leeminster  clenched  his  fist, 
almost  lashed  out  with  it  at  the  malicious,  self-satisfied,  grin- 
ning face.  Remembering,  he  transferred  his  hatred  to  the  one 
who  had  mulcted  him.  "Will  you  tell  Mr.  Knipe  what  you 
told  me  ?"  he  asked  sourly.  "About  that  door  between  Curate's 
and  Noel's  and  how  this  fellow's  been  advising  you  and  your 
fine  friends  to  wholesale  blackmail  ?" 

"If  my  name's  kept  out  of  it,  you  bet  I  will,"  was  Lazard's 
savage  response.  "I'd  like  to  see  that  guy's  face  when  they 
find  the  gun." 

"Come  on  then,"  said  Leeminster.  "We'll  catch  him  if  we 
hurry."  He  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  state  that  the  official 
sought  played  poker  at  the  River  Club  until  a  very  late  hour. 
Nor  did  he  wait  for  the  porter  to  summon  a  taxicab  and  receive 
his  legitimate  commission  both  ways.  Which  gave  rise  to 
grave  doubts  in  the  mind  of  that  functionary  whether  or  not 
Mr.  Leeminster  was  really  a  gentleman. 


VIII.  THE  HAWK  BECOMES  A  HUMMING-BIRD 

WERE  this  tale  told  in  the  year  of  the  events  recorded,  wide- 
spread indignation  would  greet  the  statement  that,  as  Lazard 
conjectured,  so  did  it  come  to  pass.  But  much  calcium  light 
has  flooded  the  dark  places  of  punitive  departments  since  the 
days  when  the  center  of  the  theatrical  belt  was  presided  over 
by  the  Bennett  owls  and  the  statue  of  Horace  Greeley,  since 
hansoms  waited  at  stage  doors  and  their  occupants  might  make 
merry  until  dawn.  Exposure  has  followed  exposure.  To  dis- 
cover what  sort  were  they  who  could  go  about  the  business  of 
assassination  in  motor  cars,  the  searchlight  has  soared  beyond 
the  clay  feet  of  Manhattan  and  found  its  face  of  brass.  Other 
than  one  who  protects  the  shame  of  high  places  now  rules  in 


56  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

the  office  of  District  Attorney:  his  hand  has  helped  turn  up- 
ward the  searchlight.  But  the  man  who  played  late  at  the 
River  Club  had  personal  reasons  for  wishing  to  see  the  sport 
of  kings  protected.  It  was  enough  that  there  were  rude  rascals 
who  poached  upon  the  preserves  of  gentlemen;  but  when  one 
bade  them  stand  and  deliver  besides,  an  example  must  be  made 
that  would  strike  terror  into  his  like. 

It  had  been  largely  through  this  gentleman's  activities  that 
the  statute  legalizing  common-law  marriages — that  is,  when  a 
woman  had  lived  a  certain  number  of  years  with  a  man  she 
was  entitled  to  the  name  and  privileges  of  a  wife — had  been 
repealed,  to  save  from  annoying  mesalliances  many  sons  of  the 
rich  who  had  mistresses.  Now,  when  he  heard  of  the  activities 
of  Arcy  MacTea,  he  voiced  a  belief  that,  should  this  man  go 
unpunished,  here  was  a  danger  quite  as  great :  gentlemen  soon 
would  be  unable  to  bait  traps  with  luxury  and  cease  supplying 
bait,  at  their  pleasure.  It  was  impossible  not  to  do  or  say 
something  compromising  even  if  one  wrote  no  letters.  Which, 
like  that  dastardly  common-law  marriage  statute,  was  a  direct 
blow  at  the  liberty  the  common  people  had  fought  to  give  men 
of  birth  and  fortune.  Were  prerogatives  gained  in  a  Revolu- 
tion to  be  endangered  ?  He  guessed  not ! 

But  he  also  did  not  guess  at  the  fact  that  he  was  to  bring 
about  his  ears  a  nest  of  hornets  which  up  to  now  had  been  dis- 
guised as  honey-giving  bees.  The  newspapers  had  hitherto 
supported  him  under  the  impression  that  one  of  independent 
fortune  would  be  more  honest  than  a  professional  politician. 
But,  when  Arcy,  imprisoned  at  police  headquarters,  had  sworn 
many  oaths  as  to  the  outrage  perpetrated  upon  him  and  had 
convinced  the  star  reporter  of  his  paper  he  had  been  victimized 
to  please  somebody — prudently  antedating  Toya's  breach  of 
promise,  Jim  North  had  flown  to  his  city  editor.  The  indignant 
two  had  sought  the  managing  editor,  the  militant  three  had 
found  the  owner,  and  the  furious  four  had  called  upon  the 


THE  PARASITE  57 

judge  who  was  to  set  Arcy's  bail  on  the  following  morning. 
It  happened  to  be  a  judge  who  was  well  aware  of  the  Blue- 
beard chamber  in  the  District  Attorney's  edifice  of  apparent 
rectitude,  and,  as  that  person  had  once  declined — seeing  no 
gain — to  soften  the  prosecution  of  a  friend  of  the  judge's 
friend's  friend,  that  dignitary  now  saw  the  chance  of  having 
that  chamber  unlocked.  But  they  were  of  the  same  party,  and 
even  if  the  unlocking  were  done  by  him,  he  must  still  keep  the 
secret  for  the  party's  sake.  So,  instead  of  assuring  the  furious 
four  that  the  evidence  against  Arcy  would  be  found  insufficient 
to  hold  him,  he  suggested  that,  if  he  held  him  on  small  bail, 
Mr.  MacThyndall  could  take  his  trip  to  Europe  and  help  repre- 
sent his  paper  in  Paris,  as  had  been  arranged — "skipping"  his 
bail  if  necessary;  while  the  newspaper's  lawyers  investigated 
his  case  and  found  the  Bluebeard  chamber.  Which  suited  the 
irate  newspaper  owner  well  enough ;  this  same  District  Attor- 
ney had  not  shown  sufficient  gratitude  for  the  journalistic 
assistance  that  had  elected  him. 

Thus  it  was,  to  the  extreme  indignation  of  the  District  At- 
torney— for  his  assistant  detailed  on  the  case  had  done  all  pos- 
sible to  impress  the  judge  that  now  was  the  time  to  show  the 
lawless  that  the  new  law  about  weapons  was  going  to  be  en- 
forced— Arcy  was  freed  at  so  small  an  expense  to  his  bonds- 
man that  one  would  have  supposed  the  new  law  was  not  yet 
in  force.  But  when  he  heard  who  the  bondsman  was,  and 
that  Robert  C.  MacThyndall  was  the  R.  C.  MacT.  whose 
initials  met  his  eye  each  morning  at  the  breakfast  table — true, 
Arcy  had  given  his  occupation  as  "newspaper  man,"  but  that 
was  a  favorite  evasion  of  the  sons  of  Subterranea — the  District 
Attorney's  wrath  against  Mr.  J.  Tubman  Leeminster  was 
terrible  to  behold ;  that  gentleman,  hastily  summoned,  having 
arrived,  he  was  restrained  from  doing  him  an  injury  only  by 
the  fact  that  Leeminster  was  the  larger  of  the  two. 

"A  fine  trick  you've  played  on  me,"  he  whispered  shrilly, 


58  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

in  the  accents  of  a  scream.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  fel- 
low was  a  reporter?  You  let  me  think  he  was  a  grafter — " 

"So  he  was,"  said  Leeminster:  "I  don't  care  if  he  was  a 
reporter  or  not.  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  care?"  bellowed  the  District  Attorney.  "Why, 
I'd  sooner  arrest  a  Fourteenth  Street  politician  than  a  reporter 
on  the  Argus.  Scarthwaite'll  never  let  up  on  me  now;  and 
when  he  starts  for  anybody,  they're  gone.  He  just  hounds 
you  and  hounds  you  and  hounds  you.  I've  got  to  live  like  a 
Trappist  monk  or  get  out.  You've  ruined  me,  Tubby  Lee- 
minster." 

So  it  proved.  A  year  later  there  was  a  new  District  Attor- 
ney :  Leeminster's  friend  was  not  even  nominated. 


That  year  was  spent  both  profitably  and  pleasantly  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  R.  C.  MacThyndall — married  since  Arcy,  by  the 
great  luck  of  Toya  knowing  the  girl  from  a  former  show,  got 
the  full  details  of  her  suicide,  which  involved  the  heir  of  one 
of  America's  large  fortunes.  His  wife  had  long  known  of  his 
liaison,  but  had  permitted  it  because  she  was  freer  married  than 
divorced.  But  the  man  had  left  the  former  show-girl  to  follow 
another  woman  of  fashion,  and,  this  being  one  of  the  few  cases 
where  the  girl  really  cared  for  the  man,  not  the  money,  Toya's 
friend  took  poison.  But,  before  doing  so,  she  had  seen  Toya 
in  Paris  and  had  told  of  this  intention  should  Arthur  refuse 
to  return  from  St.  Moritz  to  their  London  apartment;  and, 
when  the  news  of  her  death  came,  Arcy  gave  his  chief  a  story 
to  cable  that  with  its  developments  held  the  front  pages  of  the 
New  York  newspapers  for  a  week  or  more;  forcing  the  wife 
to  institute  divorce  proceedings,  the  co-respondent  the  woman 
for  whom  Arthur  deserted  Toya's  friend.  All  of  which  belongs 
to  another  history  which  shall  some  day  be  related. 

Arcy  had  learned  sufficient  of  the  world  not  to  tell  of  the 


THE  PARASITE  59 

lucky  chance  which  had  given  him  the  details  in  a  lace  napkin. 
He  invented,  instead,  a  series  of  imaginary  sleuthings  which 
redounded  to  his  resourcefulness ;  and  the  Paris  correspondent 
had  urged  earnestly  that  Mr.  Scarthwaite  increase  Arcy's 
honorarium.  Which  was  not  needed  when  the  proprietor  of 
the  Argus  heard  it  was  the  younger  man  who  had  given  the 
paper  the  "exclusive"  which  had  made  all  the  other  Manhattan 
dailies  hold  their  injured  noses. 

Then  it  was  that  Arcy  had  yielded  to  the  oft  repeated 
request  of  Toya  that  their  union  be  legitimatized.  He  had  held 
off,  hitherto,  for  a  reason  that,  strangely  enough,  was  an  un- 
*  selfish  one.  When  first  he  had  met  Toya,  she  was  the  usual 
loud-voiced,  ignorant  chorus  girl,  considering  herself,  with 
neither  birth,  breeding  nor  any  save  a  rudimentary  education, 
the  equal  of  all,  the  superior  of  most ;  brought  to  this  pert  and 
egotistical  belief  by  a  false  system  of  public-school  training, 
plus  the  attention  and  compliments  every  pretty,  youthful  girl 
receives  from  stage-door  hangers-on.  Meeting  men  with 
famous  names  and  finding  them  bores  or  beasts,  it  is  not 
strange  such  girls  should  fail  to  believe  in  a  superior  class. 

Arcy  had  changed  all  that :  since  she  loved  him,  she  feared 
him  and  respected  his  attainments ;  was  desirous  of  awakening 
in  him  more  than  the  cool,  kind  affection  which  was  all  he  gave 
her — openly.  She  had  set  herself  to  win  his  admiration,  to 
make  herself  all  he  seemed  to  think  a  woman  should  be.  Other- 
wise, she  would  have  dropped  Leeminster  immediately ;  but  she 
needed  money  for  her  music,  her  education  generally.  More- 
over, she  wished  to  dress  as  did  those  Fifth  Avenue  women 
whose  chic,  until  then,  she  had  not  found  so  evident  as  that  of 
her  sister  show-girls;  and  to  save,  after  the  thrifty  Slavonic 
fashion,  for  summers  of  no  work  and  many  rehearsals.  Then, 
gradually,  through  his  constant  mockery  of  her  favorite  fiction, 
she  developed  a  taste  for  good  literature;  which,  abetted  by 
professional  matinees  at  the  better-class  theaters  where  she  saw 


60  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

English  comedies  acted  by  actors  familiar  with  the  usages  of 
drawing-rooms,  gave  her  knowledge  of  a  class  apart  from  the 
noisy  spectacular  brass-band  set  whose  escapades  and  scandal 
fill  the  Sunday  supplements ;  a  class  impossible  to  respect  and 
easy  to  emulate  in  dress  and  manners,  which,  unfortunately, 
with  Toya,  as  with  so  many  American  girls  of  the  working 
classes,  is  the  only  aristocracy  they  know. 

But,  since  Toya  had  learned  that  there  were  people  not  dis- 
tinguished as  to  wealth  nor  willing  to  sacrifice  honor  to  achieve 
it — people  familiar  with  the  best  in  books,  art  and  music,  she 
had  set  up  an  ideal,  and,  though  she  had  been  slow  to  achieve  it 
while  she  remained  in  New  York,  she  needed  only  removal 
from  the  tawdry  life  she  must  lead  in  dressing-rooms  and 
restaurants  to  begin  in  earnest.  Add  to  that  Paris,  the  example 
of  fellow  students  better  educated,  of  better  families  than  her 
own,  the  respect,  almost  veneration,  for  art  and  literature  that 
exists  in  Paris  even  among  the  lower  classes,  and  the  society 
of  Arcy's  new  friends,  painters,  authors,  correspondents  and 
the  like,  who  wasted  no  time  on  banalities — and  Toya  within 
was  soon  almost  worthy  of  Toya  without.  And  as  she  had 
all  the  dark  mysterious  beauty  of  the  Slavs,  whose  women's 
eyes  are  starry  and  mysterious  even  when  they  are  thinking 
of  what  they  will  have  for  dinner;  yet  was  without  the 
Slavonic  clumsiness  of  body,  having  had  a  mother  of  the 
Czechs,  whose  grace  of  motion  makes  their  national  dances  too 
difficult  for  any  but  themselves — to  say  her  mental  attain- 
ments could  ever  come  within  speaking  distance  of  her  physical 
charms  would  be  possible  only  to  one  of  those  who  write  bon- 
bon fiction  or  "primitive"  plays:  in  which  total  changes  of 
character  are  accomplished  between  acts  and  in  single  chapters. 

Say,  rather,  they  came  within  shouting  distance,  megaphone 
distance ;  which  was  quite  sufficient  for  so  pretty  a  girl.  At  all 
events,  she  had  learned  to  know  good  art  and  good  manners  if 
not  to  like  them ;  and  Arcy  having  selected  her  clothes  for  SO 


THE  PARASITE  61 

long,  she  had  developed  a  secondary  instinct  as  to  what  suited 
her  type;  and  now,  in  a  plain,  closely  fitting  skirt  cut  like  a 
sword  scabbard,  with  a  narrow-shouldered  coat,  long-lined  in 
the  back  and  sharply  curved  and  cut  away  at  the  waist-line, 
displaying  her  narrow  waist  and  rounded  torso  in  a  tightly 
fitting  semi-waistcoat  of  brocaded  stuff,  a  long  jabot  of  the 
softest  and  most  expensive  lace  falling  over  it,  she  looked  like 
the  lady  of  a  seventeenth  century  Royal  Hunt ;  so  aristocratic- 
ally slender  that  she  seemed  tall,  her  small  Greek- featured  face 
like  a  vivid  little  flower  on  a  long,  graceful  stem.  It  is  a  trick 
few  women  learn:  to  disregard  entirely  what  are  called  the 
fashions,  to  find  a  style  suited  to  their  type,  thereafter  adher- 
ing to  it.  It  is  the  device  that  distinguishes  the  successful 
beauty  from  the  merely  beautiful  one — and  is  the  only  thing 
known  to  stir  Paris,  familiar  to  contempt  with  the  picked 
beauties  of  the  world  who  come  to  sell  their  charms  in  the 
highest  market. 

In  Paris,  then,  wherever  Toya  went,  she  was  followed  by 
admiring,  eager  eyes.  A  Russian  grand  duke  had  his  secretary 
seek  her  out  to  ask  for  an  introduction.  An  English  peer  with 
a  famous  racing  stable  named  for  her  a  horse  that  was  to  win 
the  Grand  Prize.  She  did  not  dare  walk  alone  on  the  Rivoli, 
the  Prix,  or  any  principal  street :  someone  was  sure  to  stop  his 
motor  and  come  to  walk  by  her.  Here  a  beautiful  woman  does 
not  need  to  be  on  the  stage  to  attract  widespread  attention: 
she  has  only  to  be  where  news  is  known  before  it  reaches  the 
newspapers — at  race-courses,  restaurants  and  revues;  to  all  of 
which  Arcy's  occupation  as  correspondent  took  him,  and  where 
he  soon  became  famous — for  the  constant  cavalier  of  a  beauty 
is  a  man  of  no  small  importance  in  the  gay  world  of  Paris. 
Toya's  beauty  was  better  than  all  his  letters  of  introduction. 
Without  the  slightest  effort,  he  met  all  the  grandees  whom  to 
know  is  to  know  the  news  before  it  is  printed.  The  official 
correspondent  of  his  paper  had  never  enjoyed  such  intimacy 


62  JBIRDS  OF  PREY 

with  the  famous  and  the  wealthy.  As  it  was  soon  found  that 
Toya  was  not  allowed  to  come  without  him,  Arcy  was  invited 
to  many  suppers,  shootings,  coaching  parties  and  other  diver- 
tissements of  English  dukes,  American  millionaires,  South 
American  and  Russian  nabobs.  So  that  Toya  had  not  to  argue, 
as  in  the  past,  when  she  brought  up  the  marriage  question. 
After  his  increase  in  salary,  she  had  only  to  suggest. 

Then,  as  delighted  with  her  new  dignity  as  a  kitten  with  a 
new  bow  of  ribbon,  Toya  no  longer  felt  it  a  necessity  to  be 
present  at  every  race  meeting.  She  was  seen  seldomer  in  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  and  more  often  at  symphony  concerts  and  Wag- 
nerian  performances;  and  her  teachers  at  the  Conservatoire 
noted  an  increased  progress  in  her  studies.  Being  now  assured 
that  the  man  she  wanted  was  tied  to  her  securely  unless  she 
herself  willed  it  otherwise,  the  question  of  sex  was  settled  in 
her  mind,  and  she  no  longer  found  it  necessary  to  remind  him 
continually,  by  making  fresh  conquests,  of  her  desirability  in 
other  men's  eyes.  And,  as  ever  since  they  had  left  America  he 
had  forbidden  her  to  accept  any  presents  but  flowers,  candy  or 
books,  she  could  see  no  further  use  in  submitting  to  that  bore- 
dom that  came  from  their  compliments  and  love-making.  She 
now  concentrated  upon  her  career  with  all  the  extra  energy 
hitherto  expended  in  flirtation;  and  the  only  men  she  allowed 
to  escort  her  were  Arcy's  friends  and  those  who  were  inter- 
ested in  civilized  conversation — one  of  whom  had  been  for 
some  little  while  that  eminent  financier,  Carolus  Lang,  tempo- 
rarily master  of  his  health  and  an  occasional  visitor  to  Paris. 

Originally  she  had  been  directed  by  Arcy  to  use  all  her 
powers  to  persuade  some  friend  of  Lang's  to  introduce  her  to 
him  upon  one  of  those  flying  trips;  and,  once  met,  to  exert 
herself  to  the  utmost  to  gain  his  friendship  and  confidence — all 
for  a  reason  with  which  Toya  more  than  sympathized:  ven- 
geance for  the  treachery  of  Milton  Lazard. 


THE  PARASITE  63 


IX.  AN  EAGLE  INTERVENES 

OF  Carolus  Lang  this  history  is  too  confined  to  treat  with 
that  detail  due  his  remarkable  character.  There  has  been  one 
who  has  filled  near  upon  half  a  thousand  such  pages  as  this, 
yet  got  no  farther  than  the  fourth  decade  of  Lang's  life.  To 
bring  him  past  the  sixth,  when  he  comes  into  this  tale,  would 
require  many  thousand  more :  even  to  picture  him  adequately, 
transferring  to  paper  that  sense  of  power  which  he  radiated, 
conveying  that  commingling  of  rapacity  and  philanthropy, 
scorn  of  the  public  yet  desire  for  applause,  hatred  of  sham 
yet  love  of  intrigue,  militant  money-making  yet  a  devotion  to 
all  that  is  best  in  the  arts  and  sciences  so  absorbing  that  he 
desired  to  share  it  with  all  the  world  and  propagate  it  for 
posterity — all  this  would  necessitate  a  lapse  so  long  that  inter- 
est would  be  lost  in  those  minor  persons  who  are  our  major 
ones. 

Arcy  had  watched  the  reports  of  his  health  like  a  loyal  sub- 
ject the  bulletins  of  the  physicians  attending  a  dying  monarch: 
that  is,  since  receiving  the  result  of  the  investigation  of  Scarth- 
waite,  owner  of  the  Argus,  which  had  resulted  in  the  inclusion 
of  Milton  Lazard's  name.  Well  for  Leeminster  had  his  haste 
not  deprived  that  commissionaire  of  his  commission.  Arcy  had 
given  them  the  Leeminster  clue,  and  it  had  been  an  easy  task 
to  ascertain  his  habits  and  to  trace  him  on  the  night  previous  to 
Arcy's  arrest. 

Had  the  club  porter  requisitioned  Leeminster's  cab,  the 
incident  of  Lazard's  call  might  have  been  confused  with  the 
hundred  other  calls  of  non-members  upon  members  that  make 
up  part  of  any  commissionaire's  average  week.  But  the  fact 
of  Leeminster's  brushing  that  porter  and  his  legitimate  com- 
mission aside  to  enter  deliberately  the  cab  of  a  notorious  night- 
hawk,  had  limned  every  detail  of  the  rencontre  in  the  non-fad- 


64  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

ing  colors  of  indignation  upon  the  disappointed  porter's  mind. 
He  remembered  Lazard's  name,  Leeminster's  order  that  the 
caller  be  sent  to  that  priavte  card-room  reserved  for  confidential 
communications,  the  exact  duration  of  that  particular  one — 
everything  necessary  to  confirm  Arcy's  suspicion  that  Lazard 
had  been  the  instigator  of  the  law's^assault  upon  him. 

And  for  this  malignant  treachery  Lazard  was  going  to  pay 
dearly ;  that  Arcy  swore :  Toya  also.  Her  hatred  for  the  man 
turned  her  into  a  little  fury  whenever  his  name  was  mentioned. 
Alone,  she  had  been  impotent :  now  that  Arcy  hated  him,  too, 
so  confident  was  she  in  her  chosen  one,  Lazard  should  bitterly 
regret  each  separate  insult  about  the  size  of  Miss  Thiodolf's 
feet.  She  had  never  been  conscious  of  this  failing  until  he  had 
loudly  proclaimed  it.  Now  she  was  forever  conscious  of  it, 
and  spent  much  time  devising  boots  and  pumps  not  so  short- 
vamped  as  to  be  chorus-girly,  yet  that  reduced  the  size  of  the 
extremities  they  covered  to  the  perfection  of  other  parts  of 
her  body.  And,  whenever  the  newest  device  hurt  her,  which 
was  often,  she  though  vengefully  of  her  lost  comfort  and  peace 
of  mind ;  and,  if  the  requital  of  Lazard's  treachery  slumbered 
in  Arcy,  she  awoke  it.  Next  to  their  future,  this  was  their 
absorbing  topic.  Ways  and  means  suggested  themselves ;  from 
such  a  primitive  plan  as  having  Lazard  set  upon  by  Chatham 
Square  Apaches  and  beaten  out  of  all  recognizance  (Toya's)  to 
the  Machiavellian  methods  of  Arcy,  too  artistic  to  succeed  any- 
where except  inside  book  covers.  Even  those  nights  when 
some  success  should  have  made  them  serenely  happy  were 
spoiled  by  thoughts  of  a  swaggering  blackguard  still  reigning 
over  his  table  at  Noel's,  making  ragtime  entertainers  secondary 
attractions,  continuing  to  be  quoted  in  theatrical  sheets  for 
witty  sayings  or  doughty  lies  about  past  adventures.  At  such 
mental  pictures,  Arcy  would  champ  his  teeth  and  kick  at  the 
bed-covers :  his  future  would  be  forgotten.  A  genuine  hatred  is 
like  a  great  mosquito  forever  buzzing  about  the  ears;  until  it 


THE  PARASITE  65 

is  slain,  it  is  a  wholesale  poisoner  of  days  and  nights — even  of 
purple  ones.  Nights  especially;  for  like  Macbeth  it  murders 
sleep. 

During  the  early  days  of  their  exile,  Carolus  Lang  had  re- 
mained very  low.  The  physicians  of  a  king  and  an  emperor 
were  at  the  small  villa  at  Villefranche  into  which  Lang  had 
been  carried  when  he  was  stricken,  and  which  his  secretary, 
Corrie,  had  hastily  hired,  paying  an  extravagant  price  to  get 
its  occupants  to  go  elsewhere.  About  this  time  an  opera  singer 
just  arrived  from  America  told  Arcy  that  Lazard  was  wearing 
a  magnificent  stickpin,  a  miniature  of  Joardin's  great  statue 
"lo,"  created  by  the  sculptor  himself  for  the  great  financier, 
his  earliest  patron — a  historic  thing  because  it  was  the  only 
one  Joardin  ever  did.  Carolus  Lang  must  be  very  near  his 
end :  even  his  scatter-brained  wife  would  not  dare  make  such 
a  gift  unless  he  were;  and  Lazard  must  have  inspired  more 
than  ordinary  affection  for  her  to  take  so  great  a  chance. 
.  .  .  Arcy's  violent  comments  caused  the  songstress  much 
amusement. 

"How  can  he  marry  her?  He's  got  a  wife  in  Salt  Lake 
City.  I'm  from  there  myself:  started  in  the  same  show  with 
her  when  she  was  a  big  favorite.  All  of  us  went  to  the  wed- 
ding: we  all  thought  she  was  marrying  some  millionaire.  He 
talked  so  big  we  imagined  he  was  backing  the  show.  But 
one  night  we  heard  them  quarreling  in  the  dressing-room.  He 
was  going  to  leave  her  unless  she  handed  him  her  pay  envelope 
— she  mustn't  even  break  the  seal.  .  .  .  I'd  like  to  see  the  man 
who'd  dare  say  a  thing  like  that  to  me,"  she  concluded,  uncon- 
sciously repeating  what  every  woman  believes  until  she  is 
unlucky  enough  to  meet  a  Lazard  and  does  precisely  what  she 
has  despised  in  others. 

After  Arcy  left  her,  his  jubilation  faded.  Whether  Lazard 
married  Mrs.  Lang  or  not,  he  would  have  the  handling  of  the 
Lang  millions.  Her  husband  must  be  warned  in  time.  .  .  . 


*r 

66  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Arcy  hurried  home  to  pack  a  bag,  and  catch  the  Cote  d'Azur 
express  to  the  Riviera.  But  Toya  had  news,  too:  an  aviating 
Brazilian  just  returned  from  hydroplane  feats  off  Villefranche 
had  come  over  to  her  table  at  the  Volney  while  she  was  taking 
tea;  Lang  had  been  seen  wheeled  about  in  an  invalid-chair. 
If  he  was  out  again,  the  warning  could  wait.  But  Lazard's 
wife? 

"Maybe  she's  dead  now,  or  divorced,"  suggested  Toya  rue- 
fully. 

"Divorced,"  nodded  Arcy ;  "he'd  surely  divorce  her,  know- 
ing his  chances  with  Mrs.  Lang  for  months."  Then,  with  that 
genius  for  deduction  that  is  a  concomitant  of  hatred:  "Buy  her 
off — maybe  that's  what  he  wanted  the  thousand  for." 

"It  is"  said  Toya,  clapping  her  hands.  "It  is.  But  he 
didn't  get  it.  Who'd  lend  him  a  thousand  ?" 

"If  Mrs.  Lang's  letting  him  wear  that  stickpin,  fiscal  ques- 
tions aren't  bothering  him  just  now.  We've  got  to  find  out. 
I'll  send  a  cheque  to  Bill  Byrd  and  cable  to  have  his  Salt  Lake 
agency  look  into  this.  Those  Byrd  men  come  high,  but  they 
deliver  the  goods." 

No  proof  of  Toya's  hatred  for  Lazard  could  have  been 
stronger  than  that  disclosed  by  the  scene  that  followed ;  when 
she  wept  for  anger  because  Arcy  would  not  permit  her  to  use 
a  part  of  Leeminster's  ten  thousand  even  to  share  in  the  cost  of 
this  investigation.  But  Arcy  was  wise.  They  were  not  mar- 
ried at  that  time,  and  he  had  heard  of  separations  before  when 
the  woman  spoke  loudly  of  benefits  conferred  upon  the  former 
loved  one.  And  to  be  identified,  even  by  exaggerated  accusa- 
tion, with  the  practices  of  a  man  he  loathed  so  much,  should 
never  be.  None  of  that  shaking  of  the  Leeminster  plum-tree 
should  be  utilized  for  anything  except  Toya's  own  luxuries  and 
necessities :  not  even  for  anything  in  which  he  shared,  even  to 
the  slightest  degree. 

In  due  time  the  first  Byrd  report  arrived.    The  Salt  Lake 


THE  PARASITE  67 

agent  had  referred  the  search  for  Mrs.  Lazard  to  the  San 
Francisco  branch.  Arcy  was  now  advised  that  she  was  sing- 
ing in  the  Bellefont  Theater,  "with  illustrated  slides."  Later, 
a  second  report  told  of  her  hegira  to  Reno;  and  the  Reno 
branch  informed  him  of  the  hiring  of  one  of  those  tiny  single- 
story  four-roomed  bungalows  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Nevada 
capitol ;  of  the  filing  of  an  intention  to  become  a  resident — after 
the  manner  of  all  desiring  a  divorce.  Such  actions  foretold  a 
residence  of  some  months  at  least.  .  .  .  "She  was  poverty- 
stricken  in  San  Francisco.  He  distinctly  says  -here  that  she 
isn't  singing  in  any  of  the  Reno  'honkatonks.'  Someone's  sup- 
plying the  fund%"  said  Arcy. 

"There's  only  one  thing  I  can't  understand,"  Toya  said, 
puzzled.  "How  is  it  that  Lazard  has  so  much  money  to  spend  ? 
It  isn't  like  him  when  he  could  give  her  all  the  evidence  she 
needs  to  get  the  divorce  right  away — on  the  usual  grounds. 
There's  Lily  and  the  girls  Lily  don't  know  about." 

"It  only  proves  he's  given  up  trying  to  get  money  from 
anybody  else  and  has  gone  straight  to  Mrs.  Lang,"  elucidated 
Arcy,  after  some  study.  "Catch  him  acknowledging  about  Lily 
to  her;  even  to  fake  up  evidence!  Women  are  suspicious 
enough  anyway" — she  gave  a  little  interrupting  sniff — "but  old 
women  must  be  the  very  devil." 

With  the  news  of  Lang's  increasing  good  health  (tele- 
graphed each  day  in  the  Monte  Carlo  correspondent's  news- 
letter) added  to  this  enforced  hiatus  at  Reno,  they  could  wait. 
Later,  when  Lang  came  to  Paris,  Toya  was  introduced  the 
following  day ;  on  his  next  visit,  a  month  later,  he  dined  with 
them  in  their  little  apartment  off  the  Madeleine,  Arcy  duplicat- 
ing, if  not  adding  to,  the  good  impression  Toya  had  made. 
Both  received  an  invitation  to  Lang's  chateau  at  Cannes,  in 
which  he  was  again  in  residence.  But  it  was  not  until  their 
visit  there  that  Arcy  felt  the  auspicious  moment  for  confi- 
dences had  come.  And  then  he  did  not  make  the  mistake  of 


68  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

endeavoring  to  hoodwink  one  so  astute  by  pretending  solicitude 
that  was  purely  unselfish.  He  gave  Lang  the  history  of  Toya's 
dealing  with  Leeminster  and  his  own  tolerance  of  the  parasite. 
.  .  .  "And  isn't  that  all  the  more  reason  ?"  he  finished  in  a 
fine  frenzy  of  indignation. 

Carolus  Lang  looked  amused  but  in  an  ugly  fashion.  Arcy 
had  known  of  Lang's  long  separation  from  his  wife;  but  he 
nor  anyone  had  an  idea  of  the  intense  hatred  in  which  the  man 
held  her.  Her  sins  he  could  have  pardoned ;  he  had  been  as 
unfaithful  as  she.  But  she  had  made  him  ridiculous  by  her 
choice  of  rivals.  Many  had  wondered  why  he  had  not  divorced 
her.  Arcy  was  the  first  to  learn.  For  Lang  began  to  explain, 
in  a  tired  way  as  though  relating  a  commonplace  incident  that 
bored  him — 


X.  PLANS  TO  PLUCK  A  PEACOCK 

"I  LIKE  you,  MacThyndall.  But  I'm  not  trusting  you  on 
that  account,  but  because  you  won't  speak  of  it  for  fear  of 
your  enemy  not  getting  his  deserts.  I  knew  all  you've  told  me 
months  ago.  I  want  that  precious  pair  to  hope  so  that  their 
disappointment  will  hurt  all  the  more.  One  of  my  attorneys 
saw  Mrs.  Lazard  a  week  after  she  came  to  Reno.  She's  been 
getting  a  good  fat  substantial  sum  every  week,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  get  it  so  long  as  she  keeps  her  husband's  name — " 

He  paused  to  indulge  in  a  satisfied  smile.  "She's  been  told 
to  stay  in  Reno  and  take  their  money,  too.  How  about  that, 
my  young  friend?"  Arcy  nodded,  too  amazed  to  be  exultant. 
"But,"  Lang  continued,  his  face  clouding,  "that  won't  prevent 
him  from —  Wait,"  he  broke  off.  "Since  you  hate  him  so 
much,  you  may  be  able  to  think  of  something  I  haven't.  Ten 
years  ago,  even  ten  months,  it  would  have  been  easy  for  me. 
But  this  damned  affliction  of  mine  has  thrown  me  out  of  gear. 


THE  PARASITE  69 

When  a  man  never  knows,  any  time  he  goes  for  a  walk, 
whether  he'll  return  alive  or  drop  dead  at  the  first  corner,  his 
mind  gets  atrophied.  .  .  .  I'll  show  you  a  copy  of  my  will." 

He  took  it  from  a  pigeon-hole  in  a  marquetry  desk,  an  inlaid 
trifle  that  had  once  adorned  a  palace  and  was  listed  in  col- 
lector's manuals  at  the  price  of  a  small  competence.  Arcy 
read,  amazed :  To  his  ...  "beloved  wife,  Louisa  Marie  Lang" 
.  .  .  after  certain  legacies  to  friends  and  servants  had  been 
deducted,  he  bequeathed  the  .  .  .  "income  on  his  entire  estate 
for  life."  .  .  .  The  younger  man  repeated  this  incredulously. 

Lang  nodded.  "And  if  you  can  give  me  some  certain  way 
of  making  her  accept  it,  I'll  have  a  codicil  added  in  your 
favor.  .  .  ." 

Seeing  that  Arcy  was  still  bewildered,  Lang  explained; 
some  color  came  to  his  cheeks  and  a  sparkle  to  his  eye  as  he 
outlined  his  cherished  plans.  His  money  was  to  be  at  interest 
for  a  certain  number  of  years  until,  by  that  weird  accumula- 
tion known  as  compound  interest,  it  doubled :  then  it  was  to  be 
spent  in  establishing  three  institutions  for  the  arts  and  sciences. 
Any  man  or  boy  of  a  high  degree  of  intellect  who  would  sign 
a  contract  to  remain  afterward  on  post-graduate  work  for  five 
years  would  be  educated  free  and  paid  a  wage  while  doing  so — 
these  to  assist  in  the  work  that  would  be  done  by  the  masters 
of  science,  who  would  be  induced  to  come  there  by  providing 
the  colleges  with  all  in  the  way  of  instruments,  machinery  and 
money  that  would  carry  their  researches  to  fruition.  One  col- 
lege was  to  be  in  America,  another  in  France,  a  third  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  thereafter,  they  would  be  identified  with  the  great- 
est discoveries  for  the  perpetuation,  saving  and  ameliorating 
of  human  life.  Nowadays  most  great  scientists  were  forced  to 
accept  funds  of  self-seeking  capitalists,  who  grew  rich  over  the 
result  of  their  discoveries.  That  would  no  longer  be  necessary 
when  the  Lang  colleges  flourished :  their  discoveries  would  be 
for  the  benefit  of  the  world  at  large.  While,  as  for  the  arts, 


70  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

any  youth  or  girl  with  a  decided  talent  for  music,  painting, 
sculpture  or  literature  would  also  receive  his  education  gratis, 
along  with  a  small  income.  .  .  .  Arcy  stuttered,  mumbled, 
flushed  crimson,  trying  to  find  words  to  express  his  admi- 
ration of  so  great  a  humanitarian  scheme. 

Lang  smiled  wryly.  "One  must  be  either  a  sheep  or  a  wolf 
in  this  world,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I  got  tired  of  being  a  sheep, 
so  I  started  to  be  a  wolf.  I  made  the  mistake  of  robbing  the 
rich,  though,  and  they  put  me  in  jail  as  a  low  person ;  so  when 
I  got  out  I  turned  respectable  and  robbed  the  poor.  I  flatter 
myself,  though,  that  this  way  I'm  doing  more  good  than  if 
they'd  spent  it  themselves.  Their  grand-children  ought  to  thank 
God  I  did  rob  them."  He  paused.  "However,  to  do  this,  I 
need  what  I've  got.  I  can't  afford  to  give  one-third  to  have  a 
feather-brained  peahen  hand  it  over  to  a  ridiculous  peacock." 

"One-third — why  ?"  queried  Arcy,  more  puzzled  than  ever. 

"Her  dower  right:  that's  the  law.  Every  married  woman 
can  get  one-third  of  her  husband's  entire  estate  if  he  dies  with- 
out making  a  will.  Or  she  can  break  any  will  that  leaves  her 
less  than  that.  If  she  could  have  divorced  me  she'd  have  got 
that,  at  least:  she  couldn't  for  the  same  reason  I  couldn't 
divorce  her:  we  canceled  out.  But  if  she  accepts  the  will  as 
I've  made  it — "  Once  more  the  ugly  smile. 

Arcy  did  some  calculating.  "But  according  to  your  own 
statement  the  income  from  the  estate  if  left  at  interest  will 
double  it  in  a  certain  number  of  years." 

Lang  nodded,  still  smiling.  "The  executors  of  the  will  are 
scientific  gentlemen  who  want  the  colleges,"  he  said,  "along 
with  my  personal  friend  and  lawyer  who's  with. me  heart  and 
soul.  My  dearly  beloved  little  peahen  can't  survive  me  more 
than  ten  years  the  way  she's  going  on.  And,  when  she  accepts 
the  will,  the  executors  are  instructed  to  sell  the  larger  part  of 
my  holdings  and  invest  in  certain  safe  propositions  that  won't 
pay  any  dividends  for  anything  up  to  a  decade — the  new  Ar- 


THE  PARASITE  71 

gentine  Railway  for  instance,  that  afterward  will  pay  the  hold- 
ers of  first  mortgages  something  like  thirty  per  cent,  on  their 
investment ;  the  Philippines  and  Hawaiian  Trolley  Company's 
another;  the  new  Shantung  Railroad — so  forth  and  so  on — 
you  may  be  sure  I've  studied  it  out  pretty  carefully.  But  don't 
try  to  take  these  things  for  tips:  a  hundred  thousand  is  the 
least  such  ventures  accept :  such  things  aren't  open  to  the  small 
investor — don't  need  to  be.  ...  Now  do  you  understand  ?" 

His  smile  chilled  Arcy:  it  was  some  time  before  he  stam- 
mered out  that  he  did.  "You  mean  her  income  will  be  entirely 
in  the  hands  of  the  executors — they  can  make  it  as  little  as  they 
choose." 

"Which  means  all  the  more  toward  the  Big  Scheme — pre- 
cisely," returned  Lang.  "But  being  a  mental  light-weight,  the 
peahen  would  not  observe  any  such  possibility.  She'd  only 
understand  that,  if  she  took  her  dower  right,  she'd  get  one- 
third  as  much  income.  But  Lazard  would  alter  all  that.  He'd 
want  something  she  could  settle  on  him — and  you  can't  settle 
annuities.  Unless  I'm  very  wrong,  his  idea  is  to  get  possession 
of  her  property  while  she's  in  love  with  him,  then  quit.  And, 
my  way,  she  has  no  property.  So  even  if  he  didn't  suspect  a 
trick — which  he's  likely  to,  knowing  how  I  despise  her — he'd 
insist  on  the  dower  right.  Think  as  much  as  I  will,"  Lang 
added  wearily,  "I  can't  see  any  way  to  prevent  him.  If  he  had 
a  criminal  record,  if  he'd  done  something  the  law  could  hold 
him  for — but  he's  taken  as  good  care  of  his  skin  as  an  old  maid. 
And  that's  why  I  say,  if  you  can  tell  me  some  way  to  make  her 
accept  that  will,  down  goes  your  name  in  it  for  a  good  round 
sum.  Think  it  over,"  he  added,  and  pulled  a  long  bell-cord,  the 
old-fashioned  chateau  way  of  summoning  servants,  one  of 
whom,  answering,  was  directed  to  serve  a  hot  bedtime  drink 
useful  for  promoting  slumber. 

But  it  did  not  accomplish  its  purpose  with  Arcy.  He  lay 
awake  until  dawn,  endeavoring  to  discover  the  last  link  in  the 


72  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

chain  that  was  forging  for  his  enemy.  But  nothing  practicable 
suggested  itself  until  the  following  morning  when,  sipping  his 
chocolate  in  bed,  his  eyes  remained  riveted  upon  a  blue  en- 
velope with  a  white  address  pasted  thereon — the  European 
form  of  telegram.  Then,  without  the  slightest  effort,  there 
was  suggested  that  for  which  he  had  vainly  racked  his  brain. 

He  leaped  up,  threw  a  dressing-gown  over  his  pajamas, 
thrust  his  feet  into  Japanese  slippers  and  hurried  down  the 
chateau's  cold  halls  to  where  Carolus  Lang  still  lay  abed.  "I've 
got  it !"  Arcy  almost  shouted.  Rapidly  he  outlined  what  the 
sight  of  the  telegram  envelope  had  suggested:  "That  is,  if  the 
present  Mrs.  Lazard  dislikes  her  husband  nearly  as  much  as 
we  do." 

"Set  your  mind  at  rest  there,"  returned  Lang,  his  state  of 
excitement  one  to  cause  the  royal  physicians  grave  concern. 
"She  does." 

"Then  it's  as  good  as  done,"  said  Arcy  jubilantly.  And 
Carolus  Lang  agreed  that  it  was. 

XI.  THE  PLIGHT  OF  A  PEA-HEN;  HER  PRAYERS; 
HER  PURGATORY 

SEVEN  months  later,  Milton  Lazard  awoke  one  morning  in 
the  Madison  Avenue  mansion  of  the  late  Carolus  Lang  and 
reached  out  his  hand  mechanically  (as  he  had  done  so  many 
mornings)  for  his  little  sack  of  near-alfalfa  and  brown 
cigarette  papers.  Despite  the  expertness  of  many  years,  half 
the  tobacco  spilled,  the  other  half  was  blown  upward  into  his 
eyes ;  for,  as  he  leaned  over  to  wet  the  paper  with  his  tongue, 
a  tremendous  yawn  split  his  face  in  two,  tears  came  into  his 
eyes,  his  body  was  shaken  by  a  hundred  heaves,  his  mouth 
twitched  abominably,  and,  altogether,  he  seemed  in  a  paroxysm 
of  pain.  The  cigarette  paper  dropped  from  his  fingers;  he 
fell  back  on  his  pillow. 


THE  PARASITE  73 

Several  times  he  essayed  to  raise  himself  and  reach 
beneath  the  bolster ;  but  it  was  not  until  the  third  time  that  he 
succeeded,  drawing  out  a  long,  thin  case  encircled  by  a  rubber 
band  which  held  a  spoon.  This  latter  he  hastily  dipped  into  the 
water  glass  on  the  carved  cabinet  that  served  as  a  night  table ; 
on  which  was  also  a  cunning  device  of  a  great  silversmith,  a 
tiny  silver  figurine  representing  a  Crusader  in  full  armor, 
naked  blade  in  hand,  lance  couched  at  an  imaginary  Saracen. 
Lazard  pulled  at  the  lance-head,  which  fell  off  and  dangled  by 
a  tiny  silver  chain,  while  a  flame  of  ignited  alcohol  shot  from 
the  lance.  Over  this  Lazard  held  his  spoon  until  the  water 
bubbled  and  boiled ;  upon  which  he  filled  with  it  a  small  syringe 
he  had  taken  from  the  case.  Into  this,  removing  the  piston-rod 
while  the  water  boiled,  he  dropped  four  little  white  pellets.  The 
water  drawn  in,  these  dissolved.  Screwing  on  a  needle  so  tiny 
as  to  seem  but  a  point  of  light,  he  carefully  examined  his  fore- 
arm, and  finding  a  place  where  neither  veins  nor  arteries  inter- 
fered, he  injected  into  his  listless  blood  the  contents  of  the 
syringe;  then  lay  back,  with  his  eyes  closed,  his  features  re- 
laxed, while  the  drug  coursed  madly  through  his  system.  A 
foolish  smile  came  to  his  face :  he  stretched  out  his  limbs  in  an 
ecstasy  of  enjoyment,  laughing  aloud  as  the  pleasant  things  he 
might  do  that  day  occurred  to  him.  Faster  than  the  fastest 
moving  picture  cyclorama,  he  had  visions  of  an  8090  H.  P. 
car  shooting  through  the  greenwood ;  the  water  of  the  Hudson 
cleaved  before  the  swiftly  moving  prow  of  one  of  the  fastest 
speed  boats  on  the  river;  all  the  pretty  girls  of  the  Casino  show 
looked  admiringly  toward  the  box  where  he  sat  with  his  new 
and  wealthy  wife. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  enjoying  the  realization  of  the  present 
now  the  necessity  for  the  morphine — to  which  he  had  had 
recourse  months  before  that  he  might  maintain  the  wit  neces- 
sary to  win  his  new  wife — had  been  satisfied.  Now  he  rolled 
his  brown-paper  cigarette  with  ease,  as  he  lay  there  in  a  bed 


74  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

which  had  once  been  a  king's:  a  masterpiece  of  Florentine 
bronze,  covered  with  representations  of  pornographic  mythol- 
ogy— Leda  and  the  swan,  Jupiter  wooing  Danae,  Venus  and 
Adonis,  Diana  and  her  hunt-maids  in  the  brook,  a  rash  boy 
peering  through  the  reeds — many  more  such  incidents  on  which 
a  certain  decadent  monarch  had  desired  to  look  and  look  again. 
This  royal  couch  had  been  purchased  for  half  a  million  francs. 
And  a  plebeian  adventurer  now  lay  upon  it  smoking  cigarettes 
twenty  of  which  did  not  cost  a  penny. 

Presently  he  reached  up  and  pressed  one  of  a  row  of 
enameled  buttons  imbedded  in  an  embossed  globe  that  swung 
from  the  head  of  the  bed.  A  servant  appeared  with  coffee  and 
fruit;  another  laid  out  Lazard's  linen  and  clothes,  summoning 
a  third  who  determined  to  a  nicety  the  temperature  of  the  para- 
site's bath  and,  first  sweating  him,  punched  and  pummelled  his 
face  and  body  into  an  appearance  of  health  and  strength. 
Emerging  in  a  dressing-gown  La  Lompadour  or  Du  Barry 
might  have  envied,  Lazard  permitted  a  dapper  and  impeccably 
attired  young  gentleman — who  had  been  waiting  for  the  past 
hour — to  kneel  and  take  measurements,  another  dapper  and 
impeccably  attired  young  gentleman  writing  them  down. 

"You  wish  us  to  attend  to  choosing  the  cloth?  Yes,  sir. 
We  will  see  no  one  has  any  of  the  same  pattern  as  any  of 
yours.  Shall  we  say  a  dozen  lounging  suits,  three  morning 
coats,  one  black,  with  pin-stripe  black  trousers,  one  gray,  one 
fawn-colored,  each  with  self-trousers ;  smoking  suits  (by  which 
he  meant  dinner  jacket),  one  double-breasted,  one  single;  rid- 
ing suit,  knickerbocker  suit — and  I  should  advise  Bedford 
cords,  also,  sir;  they're  very  smart.  (Bedford  cords,  also,  Mr. 
Mink.)  Then  a  house  suit  braided,  with  scarlet  facings" — the 
young  man  seemed  to  go  into  an  ecstasy.  "And  now  as  for 
fancy  waistcoats  .  .  ." 

But  we  need  follow  this  young  gentleman  no  further. 
When  his  business  was  concluded,  the  valet  brought  Mr.  Laz- 


THE  PARASITE  75 

ard's  mail  in  a.  huge  basket ;  the  tradesmen  and  the  begging-let- 
ter writers,  the  secretaries  of  charities  and  a  majority  of  those 
to  whom  Lazard  had  ever  addressed  a  single  word,  all  had 
been  busy.  He  shook  his  head.  "Later,"  he  said ;  "and  I  can't 
see  anybody  else  this  morning,  Wilkins,  even  if  I  did  make 
appointments." 

"No,  sir;  certainly  not.  Very  good;  thank  you,  sir,"  re- 
turned Wilkins  mechanically.  He  had  trained  himself  to  be 
an  automaton  during  working  hours  —  although,  for  many 
years,  he  had  ruffled  it  along  Broadway  of  nights,  knew  Laz- 
ard's  record  and  despised  him. 

"And  I'm  not  to  be  disturbed  by  anybody,  either,"  contin- 
ued Lazard,  enjoying  his  new  importance  immensely.  "I  shall 
be  in  consultation  with  Mrs.  Lazard  and  with  my  attorneys 
and  her  attorneys  and  the  late  Mr.  Lang's  attorneys.  The 
will's  to  be  read  to-day.  Although,  of  course,  we  know  its  con- 
tents, naturally.  Mrs.  Lang  knew  the  day  the  old  gentleman 
died.  He  must  have  gone  loony  if  he  imagined  anybody  with 
a  dome  not  pure  concrete  would  stand  for  such  foolishness; 
and  I'm  going  to  tell  his  lawyers  so,  too." 

"And  a  lot  they'll  care  what  you  tell  'em,"  thought  Wilkins  ; 
but  aloud  he  replied  sympathetically:  "Quite  so,  sir.  I  should 
if  I  were  you,  sir.  They  want  taking  down  a  bit,  those  lawyer 
fellows:  thieves  /  call  'em,  sir." 

Lazard  nodded  his  head  lordily.  "As  full  of  larceny  as 
Sing  Sing,"  he  agreed.  "If  you  locked  them  up,  you  could 
turn  everybody  in  the  jails  loose.  They're  just  as  harmless  as 
a  nest  of  baby  adders.  Guess  they  didn't  reckon  on  having 
a  man  to  deal  with,  or  they  wouldn't  try  to  put  over  a  raw 
one  like  this  will.  But  they  insist  on  a  formal  reading  and 
explanation,  so  here  goes  another  morning  to  hell  and  gone." 
He  sighed  wearily :  Wilkins  was  to  imagine  that  every  moment 
of  his  master's  day  was  as  precious  as  rubies. 

Below  in  the  great  Lang  library — hung  in  Imperial  purple, 


76  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

the  eagles  stamped  and  emblazoned  on  draperies,  upholstery 
and  on  the  bindings  of  the  handsome  hand-tooled  purple 
volumes,  with  Empire  medallions  and  bronze  carvings  on 
table  legs,  mantels,  chairs,  chaises-longues,  with  the  many 
Tanagra  figurines  enclosed  in  glass  and  Lang's  curio  cases 
of  Napoleonic  relics  set  into  the  tops  of  slim,  straight-legged 
mahogany  tables— sat  every  known  species  of  legal  sharp. 
There  was  snowy-haired  Judge  Cheyney  (formerly  of  Fai'fax 
Co't  House,  suh)  but  for  many  years  senior  partner  of  Chey- 
ney, Cholmondeley,  Isaacs,  McGinnis  and  Salvini — a  firm 
which  united  all  suffrages  by  having  a  representative  of  every 
prominent  race  that  made  up  New  York's  diverse  population. 
Sir  Jameson  Cholmondeley  was  of  the  recognized  King's  Coun- 
sel type :  he  looked  half  dressed  without  his  snowy  peruke  and 
official  robes:  he  had  come  post-haste  from  England — where 
he  represented  the  British  end  of  the  firm — to  be  present  at 
the  will-reading.  Isaacs  was  a  type  of  highly  educated  Jew: 
he  had  the  face  of  an  artist,  save  for  eyes  like  a  shrewd  peddler. 
McGinnis  was  a  good-natured  Tammany  type,  Salvini,  who 
also  conducted  a  bank  for  Neapolitans  and  Sicilians,  a  florid 
Italian  political  type. 

Then  there  were  Lazard's  lawyers,  redolent  of  Broadway 
flash  and  brash:  a  young  Jew  who  wore  patent-leather  shoes 
with  a  lounge  suit  and  a  mathematically  exact  double  rhomboid 
of  a  four-in-hand  secured  by  a  large  solitaire,  his  companion 
the  sort  of  American  who  hates  foreign  countries  where  a 
willingness  to  buy  endless  drinks  does  not  admit  one  to  the 
confidence  of  strangers  or  put  an  obligation  on  acquaintances 
to  lend  him  money:  who  noisily  applauds  flag-waving  sons 
and  insists  the  eagle  is  more  than  a  match  for  any  foreign 
foe,  but  who  resents  extra  taxes  for  armaments  and  who 
never  enlists  in  time  of  war.  This  person  had  already  said 
something  excruciatingly  funny  concerning  the  King's  Coun- 
sel's habit  of  carrying  his  handkerchief  in  a  cuff  instead  of 


THE  PARASITE  77 

in  a  hip  pocket :  having  yet  to  learn  that  this  latter  medium 
did  not  exist  in  smartly  cut  garments. 

Mrs.  Lazard's  lawyers  sat  with  these  latter  ornaments  to 
the  bar:  colorless  persons  not  to  be  distinguished  from  thou- 
sands of  others  who  wear  secret-order  insignia  in  their  lapels 
or  as  watch  charms ;  a  couple  as  characterless  as  a  glass  of 
water:  "pillars  of  society."  They  had  been  endeavoring,  for 
some  days,  to  convince  themselves  that  it  showed  a  proper 
respect  for  the  deceased  when  their  client  remarried  within 
a  week ;  for  they  earnestly  assured  the  public  that  they  under- 
took no  cases  they  did  not  believe  beyond  reproach.  Having 
succeeded  (as  usual)  in  taming  their  boasted  unruliness  of 
conscience,  they,  like  good  Christian  men,  were  now  glaring 
at  the  ruffianly  executors — certain  staid  gentlemen  of  vast 
scientific  attainments  who,  with  the  former  Fai'fax  Co't 
House  judge,  were  plotting  some  villainy  to  mulct  their  estim- 
able worthy  client,  a  woman  whose  character  was  beyond  the 
reproach  of  any  save  rogues. 

But  skilled  in  self-deception  though  they  were,  the  sight 
of  Milton  Lazard — in  a  suit  of  brown  that  verged  upon  wine 
color,  and  a  flaming  striped  necktie,  his  absurdly  small  feet 
advertised  by  buttoned  tan  shoes  with  vivid  cloth  tops,  his 
eyes  greedy,  his  heavy  brutal  chin  flattened  over  his  high 
collar — gave  them  uneasy  qualms ;  qualms  that  were  increased 
by  her  own  attire  as  she  flaunted  in  on  his  arm.  Her  dress 
was  black,  to  be  sure,  but  so  coquettishly  cut,  so  scanty  of 
skirt  and  tight  of  waist — "a  la  princesse" — that  it  resembled 
a  stage  costume  more  than  a  widow's  grief,  especially  when 
allied  to  a  coiffure  of  piled-up  puffs,  elaborately  waved,  and 
a  face  enameled  so  rigidly  it  seemed  to  creak  when  she  spoke. 
If  she  had  laughed,  the  whole  pitiable  mass  might  have 
crumbled  away  like  wet  plaster  on  an  old  ceiling.  Small  of 
figure  and  of  features,  she  might  have  passed  at  a  distance 
for  a  costly  coryphee ;  near,  she  was  a  mere  exhibit  of  uphol- 


78  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

stery  and  kalsomining,  of  small  charms  long  deceased  and 
denied  decent  burial. 

But  she  bore  herself  with  the  air  of  a  spoiled  and  petted 
beauty:  too  many  youths  had  been  dependent  upon  her  for 
theaters,  restaurants,  motor  rides,  gold  cigarette  cases  and 
silken  haberdashery  to  deny  her  that  admiration  as  necessary 
to  her  as  air.  To  her  lawyers  and  Lazard's  she  now  en- 
deavored to  convey  the  impression  of  a  helpless  girl  relying  on 
manly  chivalry.  The  Lang  henchmen  she  aimed  to  impress 
as  one  injured,  insulted  and  irate,  yet  in  her  gentle  goodness 
willing  to  forgive  and  be  friends. 

Lazard  thinned  his  lips  at  this,  indicating  immense  reserve 
forces,  warning  one  and  all  that  here  at  least  was  a  mighty 
fellow  grimly  determined  that  justice  should  be  done,  able  to 
enforce  it,  too:  reticent  and  repressed  now,  but  let  all  who 
would  attempt  chicanery  'ware  his  wrath.  Which  caused  her 
lawyers  to  assume  an  air  of  virtue,  his  of  outraged  American 
independence;  but  which  went  entirely  unnoticed  by  the 
callous  ruffian  band,  who  seemed  as  contented  as  pussy  cats 
purring  in  anticipation  of  a  breakfast  of  rich  cream — all  of 
which  endured  for  the  reading  of  the  early  portions  of  the 
will. 

These  dealt  with  pictures  and  curios  bequeathed  to  so- 
cieties, clubs  and  museums;  legacies  and  minor  bequests  to 
friends  and  servants.  Once  only  did  Lazard  lose  his  pose: 
imagining  he  had  heard  mentioned  as  one  of  the  former  a 
certain  Robert  C.  MacThyndall;  and  for  the  moment  he 
suspected  something  sinister  in  the  quiet,  assured  air  of  the 
executor  who  read.  There  was  too  much  calm  about  his 
companions'  countenances,  too.  But  Judge  Cheyney's  soft 
Southern  intonations  had  slurred  over  Arcy's  name;  and 
Lazard  assured  himself  he  had  not  heard  aright.  How  might 
the  great  Carolus  Lang  come  to  such  intimacy  with  an  obscure 
reporter;  and  in  so  short  a  time?  .  .  .  Righteous  wrath  soon 


THE  PARASITE  79 

replaced  the  momentary  fear  when  Judge  Cheyney  came  to 
the  section  bequeathing  "to  my  beloved  wife,  Louisa  Marie 
Lang,  the  interest  upon  my  entire  estate  for  life,"  a  wrath 
that  grew  during  what  seemed  an  interminable  recital  of  the 
aims  and  ambitions  of  the  three  colleges  of  "scientific  re- 
search," etc.  Several  times  his  attorneys  thought  it  part  of 
their  duty  as  legal  advisers  to  lay  restraining  hands  on  his 
shoulders ;  delaying  his  fiery  denunciation  until  Judge  Cheyney 
wiped  his  tortoise-shell  spectacles,  folded  over  the  rustling 
pages  of  the  heavily  sealed  document  and  smiled  in  a  con- 
gratulatory manner  upon  the  chief  beneficiary ;  who,  however, 
seemed  as  removed  from  gratitude  as  if  the  will  had  failed 
to  mention  her  name. 

Now  she  began  to  flutter  in  what,  no  doubt,  she  deemed 
an  adorably  helpless  little  way;  her  eyes  beseeching  her  gen- 
eralissimo and  her  two  armies  to  defend  her  against  a  cruel 
and  unexpected  assault.  It  was  the  opportunity  for  which 
Lazard  had  been  training  all  his  life.  He  fired  a  preliminary 
gun  in  the  shape  of  a  portentous  frown;  and,  as  he  rose,  the 
enemy  seemed  to  give  him  that  grave  attention  due  a  foe 
worth  considering. 

"If  Mrs.  Lazard  takes  my  advice,"  he  began — and  then 
the  batteries  of  the  enemy  ceased  immediately  to  be  masked. 

"Yuh  refuh  to  Mrs.  Lang,  suh?"  inquired  the  ancient  judge, 
a  schoolmaster  to  a  schoolboy. 

"Lazard''  thundered  the  owner  of  that  name,  glaring  about 
him  in  a  manner  meant  to  be  tremendously  annihilating. 

Judge  Cheyney  shrugged  his  shoulders:  the  schoolmaster 
deploring  the  caning  that  the  schoolboy  seemed  bent  on  making 
inevitable,  yet  which  so  offended  the  master's  dignity  that 
he  sought  a  deputy ;  nodding  to  that  member  of  the  firm  more 
accustomed  to  bellicose  methods.  McGinnis  rose,  his  smile 
calculated  to  provoke  further  warfare.  "Who  ?"  he  asked. 

Lazard  repeated  the  information  in  a  louder  tone.    "And 


80  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

I'll  ask  you  to  remember  it,  too,"  he  added,  increasing  the 
insult  of  his  intonation. 

"I  was  under  the  impression  that  Mrs.  Lazard  was  in 
Reno"  returned  McGinnis  blandly.  "Only  this  morning  we 
received  a  message  from  her  there.  I  have  it  here.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  you  might  like  to  see  it."  The  velvetiness  of 
his  Irish  voice  was  never  more  in  evidence,  as  he  tossed  it 
across  the  long,  low  Empire  center  table. 

But  Lazard  let  it  lie  where  it  had  fallen.  "I'm  not  inter- 
ested in  that  person,"  he  joined  stiffly:  then  lost  all  pretense 
at  dignity  as  he  added,  choking:  "You  know  well  enough 
there  is  only  one  Mrs.  Lazard  as  far  as  we  are  concerned." 

"But  you  speak  as  though  there  were  two,"  said  McGinnis 
in  blank  astonishment. 

Something  in  his  look  and  the  amusement  of  the  other 
enemies  caused  Lazard  to  sense  again  that  sinister  something 
the  name  of  MacThyndall  had  evoked.  But,  perceiving  no 
tangible  reason  therefor,  he  decided  it  was  but  part  of  the  usual 
stock-in-trade  of  lawyers — first  alarm,  then  attack;  and  he 
made  an  angry  and  pointless  reply. 

His  and  hers  were  on  their  feet  now.  "I  must  demand 
that  my  client  be  treated  with  civility  at  least,"  said  the 
hitherto  passive  owner  of  the  patent  leathers.  "And  I  wish 
to  remind  you,  gentlemen,  that  where  you  fail  in  respect  to 
a  lady,  you  may  be  within  your  legal  rights,  but  you  are  not 
acting  like  gentlemen,"  put  m  one  of  the  commonplace  men 
of  the  secret-order  insignia.  "In  plain  words,"  added  the  other, 
"our  client  considers  this  inimical  to  her  best  interests  and 
will  take  an  appeal — eh,  Mrs.  Lazard?"  On  this  the  six  of 
them  had  agreed,  the  widow-bride  having  bowed  to  the  major- 
ity when  the  worst  interpretation  of  her  late  husband's  in- 
tentions had  confirmed  Lazard's  denunciations.  And,  as  now 
he  was  favoring  her  with  a  terrific  scowl,  she  made  haste . 
to  nod. 


THE  PARASITE  81 

"But  why,  my  dear  sir?"  asked  the  King's  Counsel,  as 
though  consumed  with  curiosity,  and  addressing  McGinnis  who, 
as  spokesman,  remained  standing.  "  Why  does  everyone  con- 
tinue to  address  Mrs.  Lang  as  Mrs.  Lazard?" 

McGinnis  spread  his  palms.  "I  suppose  I'll  have  to  read 
the  real  Mrs.  Lazard's  telegram  before  they  will  believe  it," 
he  said;  and  reached  across  the  table  where  the  yellow  slip 
still  lay.  ''Kindly  give  your  attention,  everyone: 

"Night  Letter. 

"RENO,  NEVADA,  November  6th. 

"Whoever  sent  a  telegram  stating  I  am  divorced  from  my  husband 
Milton  Soulsbee  Lazard  lied  and  forged  my  name.  Cannot  believe 
any  such  telegram  was  ever  sent  unless  someone  did  it  as  a  joke.  My 
husband  and  I  are  on  the  best  of  terms.  He  sends  me  money  regularly, 
as  records  of  National  bank  here  will  show.  Perhaps  my  being  in 
Reno  gave  rise  to  this  rumor.  Am  here  for  my  health,  mountain  air, 
doctor's  orders.  Will  never  divorce  my  dear  husband. 

"It  is  signed  'Minnie  Lazard/  "  added  McGinnis,  crossing 
and  indicating  the  signature,  while  placing  the  telegram  in  the 
hands  of  Carolus  Lang's  widow.  "  'Minerva  Mortimer'  in 
parentheses.  Stage  name,  I  suppose.  And  now,  Mrs.  Lang, 
that  you  see  how  you  have  been  victimized,  it  is  up  to  you  as 
to  what  you  want  us  to  do  in  this  unpleasant  matter.  Shall 
we  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  the  proper  legal  authori- 
ties? Or,  to  save  you  the  unpleasant  notoriety,  the  somewhat 
uncomfortable  sensation  of  having  the  world  know  you  have 
been  the  victim  of  a  bigamist,  we  are  willing  to  do  what 
we  can  to  assist  you  if  you  will  assist  us  by  signifying  your 
acceptance  of  the  will  as  executed,  saving  us  the  expense  and 
trouble  of  any  attempt  to  break  it." 

He  paused,  taking  a  deep  and  satisfied  breath,  totally  dis- 
regarding the  Lazard  lawyers  and  those  of  Mrs.  Lang,  who 
were  loud  in  accusations  of  blackmail  and  conspiracy.  As 
for  Lazard,  who  had  been  for  the  moment  in  a  condition  of 


82  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

shock,  he  had  now  regained  his  assurance  and  was  proclaiming 
wildly  that  the  telegram  was  a  subterfuge. 

"Don't  you  think  we've  got  you  for  that  little  dodge?" 
he  shouted,  shaking  his  fist  in  McGinnis's  face.  "A  trick  to 
make  her  accept  a  double-crossing  will.  It  must  be  pretty 
fishy  if  you  have  to  stoop  to  a  trick  like  that.  I've  got  the 
telegram  from  Minnie,  haven't  I?"  he  demanded  of  the  now 
hysterical  little  woman.  "I'll  get  it  and  show  it  to  you  again." 

"The  point  is,  however,"  interrupted  McGinnis  pleasantly, 
"that  Mrs.  Lazard  did  not  send  it.  As  she  suggests,  it  may 
have  been  sent  as  a  joke — but  the  joke  is  on  Mrs.  Lang,  and 
we  don't  care  for  that  sort  of  joke — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

He  addressed  his  apology  to  his  senior,  Sir  Jameson 
Cholmondeley,  K.C.B.,  who  had  risen,  frowning. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  protested,  in  tones  of  insulted  probity. 
"Gentlemen — "  His  attitude  coupled  with  his  formidable  dig- 
nity denoted  danger ;  even  Lazard  was  silenced  when  the  K.C. 
turned  a  chilly  look  toward  him.  "I  have  heard  a  firm  with 
which  I  have  been  associated  for  nearly  half  a  century  accused 
of  an  attempt  to  commit  a  criminal  act,"  continued  Sir  James. 
"Under  the  circumstances,  I  feel  called  upon  to  repeat  my 
words  of  last  night,  and  to  demand,  instead  of  request,  that 
nothing  be  done  which  will  render  my  colleagues  accomplices 
in  concealing  a  crime."  He  turned  to  the  youngest  member 
of  the  firm.  "Telephone  for  an  officer,  Mr.  Salvini,"  he 
directed.  "Lay  before  the  department  the  evidence  of  bigamy 
against  this  offensive  person,  Lazard.  Let  his  attorneys  com- 
municate with  us  in  future  by  mail.  We  will  have  no  more 
such  disgraceful  exhibitions.  We  do  not  care  to  hear  any 
more  from  you,  sir,"  he  added  pointedly,  addressing  the  flag- 
waver,  the  drink-purchaser,  who  had  been  most  aggressive 
in  his  charges  of  fraud. 

There  was  instant  silence;  then  Salvini's  voice  could  be 
heard  asking  that  the  Chief  of  Detectives  despatch  with  all 
speed  two  plain-clothes  men.  It  was  evident  that  he  then 


THE  PARASITE  83 

listened  while  that  official  asked  for  particulars  to  fill  out  a 
warrant.  "The  name  is  Milton  Lazard,  occupation  unknown, 
age  thirty-odd,  native  of  Nebraska;  the  charge  is — " 

But  Lazard  had  reached  him  ere  now,  had  placed  a  nervous 
shaking  hand  over  the  telephone  receiver.  "Don't — don't !"  he 
entreated.  "You've  got  me,  I  guess.  I'll  do  whatever  you  say" 
— as  in  another  age  the  misshapen  jester,  his  ancestor,  had 
crouched  on  the  cobbles  of  the  courtyard  and  kissed  his 
master's  feet  that  the  threatening  lash  might  not  descend  upon 
him. 

Salvini,  somewhat  disconcerted,  beckoned  McGinnis,  who 
took  his  place:  the  great  McGinnis,  a  power  in  police  eyes, 
a  politician  who  could  with  a  nod  destroy  even  detective 
chiefs. 

"It's  all  right,  my  boy — McGinnis  talking  .  .  .  yes,  Aloy- 
sius  P.  Hold  the  line  a  minute."  He  covered  both  receiver 
and  transmitter,  and  turned.  "You've  got  just  one  minute  to 
decide  in,  Mr.  Lazard,"  he  said.  "Leave  this  room  and  take 
your  representatives  with  you,  or  leave  it  in  custody.  Hurry ! 
I  can't  keep  the  chief  waiting.  He's  apt  to  grow  peevish — " 

McGinnis  grinned.  Lazard  turned  to  his  lawyers:  'It's 
a  frame-up,"  he  said  sullenly. 

McGinnis  uncovered  the  transmitter.    "Chief — "  he  began. 

"Wait,  wait,"  said  Lazard,  terror-stricken.  "We're  going 
— we're  going.  Come  on,  boys."  And,  herding  his  attorneys, 
who  tried  to  detain  him,  he  made  an  inglorious  exit. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Lang?"  McGinnis  used  a  gentler  tone,  but 
did  not  alter  his  position  at  the  telephone;  though  the  com- 
monplace men  were  protesting  that  such  actions  were  high- 
handed outrages  that  all  present  should  bitterly  repent. 

"It's  simply  a  question  of  whether  you  wish  to  be  our 
friends  or  not,"  continued  McGinnis  calmly.  "Yes,  yes, 
Chief,"  he  interpolated ;  "I  ask  you  to  wait,  please.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Lang,  you  see  how  impatient  he  is.  ...  If  you  are  going  to 
accept  this  will,  please  sign  the  acceptance— Isaacs,  please." 


84  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

His  partner  moved  toward  her,  offering  her  his  fountain 
pen,  indicating  the  place  of  signature.  "If  you  wish  to  cause 
us  trouble  and  annoyance,  take  the  advice  of  the  bigamist  who 
has  deliberately  deceived  you."  McGinnis  could  not  make  his 
usual  gesture,  for  his  hands  were  engaged :  his  face,  however, 
was  expressive. 

"What  would  you  do?"  she  shrilled  in  falsetto,  fluttering 
in  earnest  this  time. 

"He  will  be  arrested  and  undoubtedly  sentenced,  and  the 
world  will  know  how  you  have  been  victimized,"  put  in  the 
King's  Counsel,  interposing  bluffly. 

"Tut,  tut,  Suh  Jameson,"  muttered  Judge  Cheyney.  "An 
honored  name?  Nonsense,  suh.  Now  if  the  will  were  unfair 
to  you,  dear  lady  .  .  .  But  you  keep  youah  house  here,  youah 
Newport  villa,  youah  chateau  at  Cannes.  Whereas,  if  you 
broke  the  will  and  secured  youah  dower,  youah  income  would 
not  permit  such  extravagances.  This  man,  Lazard,  wished 
the  will  broken  so  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  ready 
money.  .  .  ." 

Again  McGinnis  quieted  the  unruly  official  at  the  other  end 
of  the  wire — or  seemed  to  do  so.  In  face  of  both  arguments, 
and  despite  the  warnings  of  her  counsel,  she  seized  Isaac's 
pen.  "There,"  she  said  petulantly.  And  signed. 

She  could  never  be  persuaded  thereafter  that  Lazard  was 
not  in  some  way  responsible  for  her  future  misfortunes.  One 
by  one,  as  the  years  passed  and  Lang's  instructions  were 
obeyed,  she  saw  her  houses  go:  first  the  Newport  villa,  then 
the  Madison  Avenue  mansion,  until  she  had  only  the  Cannes 
chateau  where,  like  her  husband,  she  went  to  die.  However, 
she  lived  longer  than  if  she  had  had  the  entire  income  to 
lavish  upon  other  young  men,  or  her  dower  right  to  squander 
upon  Lucullan  luxury.  By  reducing  her  to  fifty  thousand 
a  year  the  executors  added  an  extra  decade,  which  gave  the 
good  priests  of  Cannes  the  opportunity  to  frighten  her  into 


THE  PARASITE  85 

fear  of  a  future  state;  causing  the  fatuous  old  sinner  to 
imagine  that  at  so  advanced  an  hour  she  might  cheat  the 
devil  of  his  due;  and,  once  convinced  that  further  dissipation 
would  speedily  end  her  days,  she  put  in  a  belated  bid  for  the 
least  purchasable  of  all  things — with  the  encouragement  of 
the  holy  fathers.  Sir  Jameson  Cholmondeley,  believing  in  the 
efficacy  of  such  repentances,  overruled  the  savant  executors, 
and  at  any  rate  the  Rest  House  of  St.  Mary  Sulpicia  profited : 
a  certain  number  of  penniless  people  may  always  find  bed 
and  board  there,  thanks  to  her  donation.  Even  she  could  not 
die  without  the  world  having  benefited  somewhat. 


XII.  THE  PEACOCK  TRIES  BEING  A  VULTURE 
AGAIN— BUT  VAINLY 

LAZARD  left  the  house  before  an  investigation  of  his  lug- 
gage could  be  made.  It  was  not  until  he  again  examined  that 
luggage  minutely,  in  the  comparative  safety  of  a  steamer 
headed  for  a  Latin-American  city  where  he  would  be  non- 
extraditable,  that  he  discovered  that  in  his  valet,  Wilkins, 
he  had  had  the  services  of  a  brother  craftsman;  who,  perverting 
the  golden  rule  in  his  case  as  Lazard  had  done  in  the  case 
of  Lang,  had  removed  many  of  the  more  important  exhibits 
in  the  collection  of  stickpins,  cuff  links,  jeweled  waistcoat 
buttons  and  other  bijouterie  that  Mrs.  Lang  had  given  the 
object  of  her  admiration.  So  that  all  Lazard  had  to  show 
for  his  residence  in  the  Lang  house  was  now  worth  but  a 
few  thousands.  Thus,  a  few  weeks  later,  a  pitiful  letter 
reached  the  Lang  executors  through  lazard's  lawyers,  and 
its  contemptuous  answer  allowed  him  to  return  to  a  country 
where  his  gift  of  language  might  again  earn  him  a  livelihood. 
A  bitter  experience  at  the  hands  of  the  customs  officials 
awaited  him.  Not  having  been  abroad  before,  he  had  shown 
the  remainder  of  the  Lang  jewelry  to  a  female  passenger 


86  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

he  was  endeavoring  to  impress,  and,  some  of  the  cabin  stewards 
being,  as  usual,  customs  spies,  Lazard  was  disagreeably  sur- 
prised on  landing  by  a  request  for  its  history.  Not  daring 
to  give  a  real  one,  he  must  sell  some  gems  to  pay  the  duty: 
was  thus  mulcted  of  a  large  portion  of  all  he  had  saved  from 
the  wreck  of  his  high  hopes. 

A  little  later,  as  the  news  of  his  return  spread  along 
Broadway,  Lily  Lamotte's  husband  called  upon  him,  admin- 
istered a  severe  thrashing  and  a  warning  that,  if  he  heard  of 
any  further  reminiscences  involving  Lily's  name,  he  would 
call  again  with  a  revolver.  This  man  had  known  Lily  when 
she  was  Lazard's  appanage,  had  been  deceived  by  her  for 
him;  but,  despite  this,  had  hurried  to  her  at  the  first  an- 
nouncement of  the  second  marriage  of  Mrs.  Lang;  having 
been  as  unable  to  conquer  his  passion  as  the  average  drunkard. 
Being  a  moody  and  morose  person,  with  a  superb  chest  de- 
velopment and  a  hard-hitting  record,  he  was  quite  able  to 
gain  for  his  wife  the  respect  in  which  a  man  wishes  his  wife 
to  be  held.  So  that  Lily  Lamotte,  nowadays,  moves  in  one 
of  the  best  bourgeois  circles,  and  seems  one  of  the  most  typical 
of  her  many  female  acquaintances  therein.  Lazard  always 
looks  the  other  way  if  by  any  chance  they  meet  in  public 
places. 

He  was  even  more  of  a  hero  to  the  new  court  he  gathered 
about  him  than  to  the  old;  for,  the  true  facts  of  the  Lang 
catastrophe  never  even  reaching  the  servants,  he  was  free  to 
interpret  his  ejection  in  his  own  way,  and  was  pointed  out  as 
a  man  who,  having  won  a  fortune,  deliberately  abandoned  it 
because  his  nature  turned  in  disgust  against  rendering  affec- 
tion to  a  dyed  and  painted  old  woman.  "I  thought  I  could  do 
it,  but  it  would  have  been  easier  to  make  the  Statue  of  Liberty 
do  a  turkey  trot,"  he  has  said  many  thousand  times.  Which 
tale  of  temperament,  added  to  the  "fame"  with  which  his 
supposed  marriage  had  covered  him,  won  him  the  affections 
of  another  Lily.  On  Broadway  when  nasty  notorieties  pack 


THE  PARASITE 


87 


the  theaters  and  capable  histrions  in  craftsman-like  plays  can 
draw  only  average  audiences,  it  does  not  matter  how  one  be- 
comes "famous"  so  long  as  it  is  accomplished. 

Curiously  enough,  Lily  the  Second  is  evening  the  score 
for  Lily  the  First  and  for  all  the  others.  Lazard,  after  win- 
ning her  by  indifference,  has  become  violently  infatuated,  thus 
cooling  her  ardor ;  and  is  now  retained  only  because  he  works 
harder  in  her  service  than  would  a  press  agent  on  a  salary; 
so  that  for  her  vaudeville  engagements  the  remuneration  has 
been  raised.  Now,  indeed,  is  there  truth  in  his  former  state- 
ment that  he  receives  only  "half  an  orange  in  the  morning 
and  a  sack  of  tobacco  a  week";  and  some  day,  when  her 
heart  is  touched  anew,  he  will  find  himself  in  the  position  in 
which  he  has  placed  so  many  other  men.  Then  abandon- 
ment, and  as  formula  for  wit  has  become  general  along  the 
Nightless  Lane,  and  his  girth  and  chins  have  increased  during 

the  years  he  has  served  the 
second  Lily,  she  will  have 
no  successor;  unless  he 
should  happen  to  find  a 
fortune  on  the  Broadway 
sidewalk — which,  to  say 
the  least,  is  unlikely — and 
is  willing  to  augment  with 
it  his  failing  fascinations. 
His  future  prospects  are 
not  such  as  to  encour- 
age any  to  follow  in  his 
path. 


Book  II 
LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK 


BOOK  II 
LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK 


I.  MISS  FORTUNE 

ISS  FORTUNE,  whose 
name,  by  the  deletion  of  a 
single  sibilant,  becomes  Mis- 
fortune, is,  in  actuality,  sel- 
dom further  removed  from 
that  same  Antithesis:  the 
two  are  truly  twins;  and  as 
no  life  can  contain  one  with- 
out the  other,  it  is  best  to 
have  the  Antithesis  first  and 
get  it  over  with. 

One  has  only  to  live  long 
enough  for  Miss  Fortune  to 
appear.  And  she  is  found  in 
the  strangest  places  .  .  .  for 

instance,  Irving  Feinberg's  Palace  of  Oriental  Pleasure,  be- 
fore which  Violet  Vandam  hesitated  one  night,  uncertain  as 
to  whether  she  should  pursue  a  habit  that,  though  giving 
her  tired  body  rest  and  her  brain  surcease,  she  had  been 
warned  would  lead  inevitably  to  a  mortifying  end.  Thus  it 
would  seem  she  should  have  conquered  her  craving  and  gone 
her  way — to  Fortune ;  yet  the  Antithesis  was  lurching  around 
the  corner  in  the  shape  of  a  drunken  man  who  was,  in  reality, 
a  plain-clothes  man,  his  vivid  jewelry  a  bait  no  impecunious 

91 


92  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

outcast  like  Violet  could  have  resisted ;  so  another  name  would 
have  been  added  to  the  "front-office  dick's"  credit  on  the 
police  blotter  and  to  his  discredit  with  the  Recording  Angel ; 
while,  within  Irving  Feinberg's  dark  doorway,  Miss  Fortune 
hovered  with  folded  wings.  Those  who  feel  themselves  cap- 
able of  giving  God  points  on  the  stage-management  of  the 
Divine  Comedy  (which  they  call  Drama  and  treat  as  Melo- 
drama) would  have  called  her  entrance  into  this  "den"  another 
false  step — she  had  taken  the  first  one  some  time  since — yet 
it  was  in  reality  aviation ;  though  no  one,  no  matter  how  gifted, 
could  have  guessed  it,  for,  after  being  admitted  into  Miss 
Fortune's  presence,  there  was  to  be  seen  nothing  even  remotely 
suggesting  her. 

But,  then,  it  was  very  dim  there;  only  a  few  filigreed 
Moorish  lanterns  giving  light ;  except  for  the  many  little  lamps 
burning  peanut  oil  to  keep  their  flames  steady,  one  to  each 
bunk,  along  with  one  long  bamboo  pipe  and  one,  sometimes 
two,  persons  using  it.  The  bunks  were  built  into  the  wall, 
two  rows  of  them,  one  atop  another,  the  general  scheme  not 
unlike  a  Pullman  sleeping-car.  All  were  occupied  when  Violet 
entered,  a  fact  brought  to  her  attention  none  too  graciously 
by  Mr.  Feinberg,  a  lean,  handsome  young  Jew  who  wore  silk 
shirts,  monogramed,  socks  and  ties  to  match;  and  who  did 
not  care  particularly  for  women  patrons :  they  boasted  and 
brought  trouble  and  some  were  inane  enough  to  "steer  suckers" 
there.  He  suggested  that  Violet  had  better  not  wait:  this, 
too,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  dictated  by  Miss  Fortune, 
who  had  decided  to-night  was  the  night  for  her  entrance  into 
Violet's  life  comedy ;  for  Feinberg  voiced  it  loudly  enough 
to  attract  the  attention  of  Mr.  Phillips,  who  otherwise  might 
have  continued  dozing — thus  missing  all  of  Fortune's  future 
gifts. 

Franklin  Phillips  looked  up  and  saw  a  tall,  slender  girl 
with  a  rare  shade  of  auburn  hair  and  odd  Japanese-like  eyes; 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  93 

and,  being  attracted  by  the  Burne-Jones  type  of  beauty,  was 
able  to  pereceive  it  when  met  with;  even  when  thoroughly 
disguised  by  the  sort  of  garments  that  were  attention-com- 
pelling, and  an  advertisement,  on  Broadway  after  midnight. 
Moreover,  his  indulgence  of  the  past  hour,  following  upon 
an  unusually  lucky  week,  had  put  him  in  a  philanthropic  mood ; 
and,  if  ever  there  was  one  upon  whom  philanthropy  could 
be  successfully  practised,  this  tired-eyed  girl  was  she. 

"Come  on  over,"  he  said.  "Bring  another  card,  Chief." 
She  thanked  him  mutely;  and,  since  there  is  a  freemasonry 
in  such  places  which  dispenses  with  introductions  and  cere- 
mony, said  nothing  until  she  had  removed  her  hat  and  shoes, 
loosened  her  dress  and  laid  her  head  upon  the  pillow  opposite 
his:  a  tray,  with  a  multifarious  collection  of  steel  cooking- 
needles,  a  sponge  and  other  necessary  articles,  including  the 
lamp  with  the  steady  little  flame,  separating  them.  Mr.  Fein- 
berg  added  to  the  collection  a  playing  card  upon  which  was 
stuck  something  resembling  a  flattened  chocolate  cream, 
which,  when  cooked  over  the  steady  flame,  exuded  an  odor 
that  increased  the  probability  of  the  chocolate-cream  hypoth- 
esis, but  that  broke  into  an  amazing  number  of  tiny  brown 
bits.  One  by  one,  these  were  attached  to  the  clay  bowl  of 
the  long  bamboo  pipe,  and  handed  to  Violet,  who  converted 
them  into  smoke.  Meanwhile,  the  philanthropist,  moved  by 
Miss  Fortune,  urged  confidences  and  criticised. 

Violet  had  not  been  occupied  by  her  present  mode  of  life 
for  more  than  a  week;  nor  had  she  been  a  success;  her  un- 
conquerable timidity  preventing  her  from  taking  the  initiative 
in  any  street  acquaintanceship;  so  that  her  few  adventures 
had  been  confined  to  other  than  the  rowdy  sort  not  averse  to 
some  remnant  of  modesty  and  reserve.  But  these  were  so 
very  scarce  that  her  room  rent  had  not  been  paid. 

Her  story  was  not  an  unusual  one:  she  had  worked  in 
a  department  store  several  years,  resenting  the  familiarities 


94  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

of  males  and  resisting  their  importunties ;  until  Jim  Healey 
had  been  appointed  to  the  haberdashery  department  over  the 
way.  His  familiarities  she  almost  welcomed ;  and,  as  his 
wages  were  not  greatly  in  excess  of  her  own,  they  could 
not  forever  be  at  the  moving-picture  shows  nor  at  the  Island ; 
so,  after  winter  made  all  the  green  benches  from  Washington 
Square  to  Central  Park  untenable,  there  was  only  her  single 
room  in  which  to  sit;  and,  here,  familiarities  grew  inevitably 
into  importunities,  this  time  unresisted:  then,  afterward,  with 
the  example  of  other  department-store  couples  to  give  some 
show  of  sanction,  they  found  that,  by  pooling  their  wages, 
they  could  have  a  sitting-room,  and  could  eat  more  frequently 
if  they  committed  themselves  frankly  to  a  gas  stove.  But 
Jim's  promotion  to  traveling  salesman  for  a  brand  of  neckties 
he  had  used  his  department-store  position  to  "push"  broke 
up  the  Arcadia;  and  after  the  first  few  weeks,  he  found  he 
had  been  over-sanguine  in  assuring  her  he  would  be  able  to 
remit  a  weekly  modicum.  Violet  had  tried  one  room  again 
and  existence  upon  her  weekly  six  dollars,  but  soon  sickened 
of  it,  listening  to  a  young  man  in  gay  tweeds  who  had  been 
the  most  attractive  of  recent  importuners;  then  she  was  late 
at  the  store  three  times  and  lost  her  position :  afterward  fell 
sick  and  the  young  man  in  gay  tweeds  ceased  to  call.  .  .  . 
Weak  and  ill,  looking  for  new  work,  she  had  met  another 
girl  who  had,  in  pity,  bought  her  lunch  and  given  her  certain 
points  of  a  profession  to  which  the  shopgirl  listened  in  horror. 
Yet,  after  another  week  and  no  work  ...  It  was  that  same 
girl  who  had  brought  her  to  Feinberg's  the  only  other  time  she 
had  been  there:  "To  put  some  life  into  her,  to  cheer  her 
up";  and,  as  never  in  her  life  had  she  felt  more  need  of  life 
and  cheer  than  to-night,  here  she  was. 

"You  poor  kid,"  said  Phillips.  His  "monaker,"  because  of 
his  discourse,  which  admiring  friends  claimed  would  persuades 
the  wiliest  granger  to  exhume  the  red  sock  from  under  the 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  95 

pigpen,  was  "Con";  and  he  was  a  gentleman  of  such  per- 
suasive parts  that  he  had  also  managed,  in  all  instances,  to 
leave  the  courts  of  justice  without  the  least  perceptible  stain 
on  his  character;  in  each  case  protesting  his  citizen's  right 
not  to  be  "mugged"  until  after  conviction,  so  that  the  police 
had  no  photographic  reminders  of  his  past  annoyances.  But, 
to-night,  he  was  not  in  character,  and  permitted  himself  the 
luxury  of  being  genuine.  "You  certainly  are  a  poor  kid. 
You're  all  poor  kids.  No  sense  of  values.  No  knowledge  of 
masculine  natures.  No  psychology.  No  management.  No 
wonder  you're  all  poor  kids !" 

He  shook  his  head  dolefully.  "All  waste,"  he  said.  "Look 
at  yourself.  Pretty  as  a  picture.  Don't  deny  it.  I  know 
you  don't  look  like  a  picture,  but  that's  because  you're  dressed 
in  atrocious  taste.  You're  not  even  wearing  the  right  colors. 
For  the  same  price  you  paid  for  those  droopy,  sad-looking 
plumes  and  that  big,  floppy  hat,  you  could  have  got  a  neat 
tailor-made  affair  with  one  quill ;  and  your  value  'ud  gone  up 
ten  per  cent.  And  for  that  gingerbready  imitation  of  a  rotten 
French  model,  a  neat  plain  jacket  and  skirt:  twenty  per  cent, 
more.  And  shoes — instead  of  those  silly-looking  Cuban  heels 
that  make  you  teeter  along  like  a  Chinese  lily  .  .  .  And  that 
foolish  blouse  with  all  the  knots  and  patches  of  imitation  lace 
which  never  look  clean  even  when  they're  just  home  from  the 
laundry  .  .  .  how  do  you  expect  to  look  like  a  picture?" 

She  told  him,  dolefully,  that  she  did  not.  "But  you  should," 
he  persisted;  he  was  on  his  favorite  hobby  now,  and  the  in- 
dulgence of  the  night  gave  him  additional  eloquence.  She 
might  have  been  the  record  roll  of  an  automatic  piano,  so 
accurately  was  each  detail  of  his  speech  etched  on  her  mind. 
She  began  to  see  herself  transformed  as  he  saw  her:  a  new 
and  conquering  Violet.  "I  tell  you  it's  clothes,  clothes,  clothes. 
Look  at  me:  they  say  I'd  look  well  in  anything.  Well,  they 
ought  to  see  a  picture  of  me  in  anything:  as  funny  a  looking 


96  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

guy  as  ever  was  allowed  to  scare  crows  out  of  the  corn ;  but 
now  I  pay  as  much  attention  to  my  made-to-order  collars  and 
shirts  as  I  do  to  my  clothes."  And  colors!  I  try  half  a 
dozen  ties  on  each  morning  before  I'm  satisfied.  ...  I'd  like 
to  dress  you,  once,  the  way  you  ought  to  be  dressed:  you'd 
see." 

He  eyed  her  speculatively,  the  look  of  philanthropy  deep- 
ening in  his  eyes.  "I've  got  a  good  mind  to,"  he  said.  "It'd  be 
worth  it.  Why,  listen,  little  girl:  if  you  were  dressed  right 
and  put  on  the  stage,  there'd  be  a  crowd  of  Johns  pushing 
each  other  under  one  another's  taxis,  hoping  each  other  would 
die  so  you  could  be  their  particular  pet  ...  no  kidding.  But, 
before  that,  you'd  have  to  know  how  to  manage  them:  have 
to  read  up  on  la-de-dah  manners  and  customs :  have  to  have 
some  intelligent  conversation  .  .  .  but,  then,  you  girls  never 
read  anything." 

"What  should  I  read?"  she  asked,  wide-eyed. 
:"Aw,  you  wouldn't  do  it,"  he  responded,  regretfully,  with 
the  knowledge  of  experience.  However,  she  insisted,  and, 
optimism  being  a  fruit  of  Feinberg's  hospitality,  "Con"  Phil- 
lips wrote  down  a  list  of  authors  and  another  of  segregated 
books.  "English  novels  are  the  best.  You  sorta  absorb  snob- 
bery from  them.  But  snobbery's  what  a  girl  needs  to  get 
along:  don't  make  the  mistake  of  putting  it  on  with  your 
friends,  though — it's  only  a  business  language.  .  .  .  But  that 
isn't  all,  either.  A  girl  can  have  the  style  and  the  snobbery 
and  still  fall  down.  It's  being  on  sale;  being  on  sale  crabs 
the  whole  thing,  d'you  understand  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  folding  the  penciled  list  as  though  it 
were  a  banknote  of  large  denomination,  tucking  it  away  in  a 
most  private  place;  regarding  him  the  while  with  an  eager, 
anxious  gaze. 

"Well,  it's  like  this:  the  fellows  who  give  women  lots  of 
money  don't  want  women  on  sale.  'Cause  why?  'Cause  if 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  97 

they're  on  sale,  that  means  anybody  and  almost  everybody  can 
buy — while  rich  men  want  something  only  they  can  buy. 
That's  why  they  pay  a  hundred  thousand  for  a  picture  by  an 
old  master,  have  each  piece  of  their  china  signed,  pay  fortunes 
for  rugs  and  hand-carved  ivories,  have  special  liveries  for  their 
footmen,  crests  for  their  writing-paper  and  carriage  panels, 
and  make  their  tailors  promise  nobody  else  shall  have  a  suit 
cut  from  any  pattern  of  cloth  theirs  is — see?  They  want 
something  the  mob  can't  buy,  something  only  they  can.  It's 
the  same  when  it  comes  to  women — only  more  so.  That's 
why  you  see  some  girls  riding  around  in  big  cp-horsepower 
cars,  wearing  five-hundred-dollar  gowns  and  five-thousand- 
dollar  rings,  while  others,  twice  as  pretty,  grab  shorts — street- 
cars I  mean.  The  first  kind  played  biggity  until  the  right 
fellow  showed  up:  the  street-car  bunch  was  just  naturally 
kind  to  strangers — all  breeds.  So  when  a  rich  man  did  get 
an  eyeful,  somebody  squealed:  'Oh,  anybody  can  get  her' — 
crabbed  before  she  started.  But  from  what  you  say  nobody's 
seen  you  around,  yet ;  all  you've  got  to  do  is  get  some  regular 
rags  and  a  job  in  a  Broadway  chorus,  live  on  your  salary, 
and  wait." 

Her  eyes  filled  as  she  saw  outlined,  so  clearly  and  certainly, 
something  she  was  quite  unable  to  accomplish.  The  tears  de- 
cided Mr.  Franklin  Phillips;  his  philanthropy  pyramided  and 
he  saw  himself,  at  no  very  future  date,  sitting  opposite  a 
magnificently  groomed  wjjjrain,  who  doffed  her  languid  and 
affected  manners  for  him  alone,  to  his  triumphant :  "I  told 
you  so."  It  would  afford  him  the  utmost  personal  satisfaction 
to  punctuate  his  theories  in  future  with  irrefutable  references 
to  one  who  had  found  them  practical;  especially  as  he  was 
not  likely  to  discover  again,  in  so  low  an  estate,  a  girl  with 
such  manifest  possibilities.  Then,  too — an  advantage  not  to 
be  overlooked  by  one  who  never  knew  when  he  would  require 
bail  and  other  outside  assistance  in  case  of  a  "tumble" — she 


98  BIRDS  OF  PREY- 

would  be  much  more  grateful  than  the  actual  investment  war- 
ranted. Of  her  success  if  she  followed  his  suggestions,  even 
partly,  he  had  no  shadow  of  doubt:  such  eyes,  hair,  slim 
hands  and  feet,  slender  figure.  .  .  .  Why,  he  was  not  un- 
affected himself,  and  he  was  a  connoisseur:  how,  then,  with 
less  esthetic  persons,  especially  when  she  had  lacy  lingerie, 
pitter-patter  shoes,  clothes  and  colors  befitting  her? 

Carefully  he  restrained  any  show  of  personal  affection, 
for  he  did  not  wish  her  to  consider  him  in  any  way  connected 
with  he  future  after  to-morrow.  A  woman  was  dangerous  to 
one  of  his  profession.  He  yawned. 

"Tell  you  what :  I  happen  to  have  a  roll  as  big  as  a  dime's 
worth  of  spinach.  I'll  probably  try  to  break  the  bookmakers 
with  it — that  means  lose;  so  I'll  just  take  a  chance  with  you: 
make  an  investment.  It'll  be  fun  for  me,  dressing  up  a 
woman  the  way  I've  always  wanted  to :  then  I'll  lead  you  out 
into  the  center  of  Broadway,  press  a  week's  shed  and  dough- 
nut money  in  your  mitt,  turn  your  nose  toward  a  manager's 
office,  and  grab  a  rattler  for  Chicago.  You  can  write  me 
every  now  and  then  how  you're  getting  on — if  you're  on  the 
square  with  that  look,  you  only  need  a  chance — and,  when 
I'm  broke,  I  might  ask  you  to  stake  me  to  a  new  B.  R. — see? 
— so  you  better  be  there  with  the  success  stuff." 

He  yawned  again:  as  though  facing  an  inevitable  which 
he  did  not  welcome  particularly,  only  accepted ;  yet,  at  that 
moment,  his  traitorous  mind  was  asking  him :  "Why  Chicago  ? 
Why  not  see  your  investment  yield?"  But  he  knew,  if  he 
remained,  he  would  allow  no  such  procedure:  it  would  be 
easy  to  make  of  her  a  Frankenstein  monster  that  would  claim 
too  much  of  his  life.  So  he  yawned  for  the  third  time,  and 
spoke  while  the  yawn  lasted :  "Well,  shall  we  go  ...  ?" 

The  dazed  girl  followed  him  as  a  dog  its  master. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  09 


II 

No  sooner  had  Franklin  Phillips  left  her  next  day  and 
taken  the  Chicago  train  than  he  was  consumed  with  regret 
that  he  had  not  stayed  at  least  a  day  or  so  longer,  telling 
himself  it  was  his  duty  to  have  finished  the  work  he  had 
begun:  to  have  seen  to  it  that,  were  she  repulsed  by  one 
manager,  she  should  be  directed  to  another  and  informed  of 
an  infallible  system.  Which  was  his  way  of  deceiving  himself 
as  to  the  impression  she  had  made  on  him.  But  he  need  not 
have  worried :  any  girls  with  looks  capable  of  charming  "Con" 
Phillips  out  of  several  "centuries"  needed  no  assistance  in 
dealing  with  the  marketers  of  feminine  pulchritude — now  that 
her  charms  were  framed  expensively  and  tastefully,  and  she 
was  no  longer  a  stray  derelict  but  provided  with  rudder  and 
compass  in  the  shape  of  belief  in  herself  and  scorn  for  sus- 
ceptible mankind;  both  of  which  Mr.  Phillips  had  been  at 
some  pains  further  to  inculcate  in  her. 

When  he  left  her  standing  on  the  curb  of  upper  Broadway, 
a  biscuit  toss  from  that  famous  restaurant,  Curate's,  once  an 
unattainable  Elysium,  she  became  almost  immediately  con- 
scious that  a  well-dressed  man,  who  had  been  walking  briskly 
had  begun  to  loiter  nearby.  His  name  she  was  never  to  know, 
nor  did  he  again  enter  into  her  life;  but  in  that  moment  she 
saw  staged  other  scenes  of  Franklin  Phillip's  verbal  play,  "The 
Triumphs  of  the  Beauty  Errant."  The  day  before,  such  a 
man  would  have  looked  no  further  than  her  floppy,  feathery, 
hat,  her  badly  fitting,  pretentious  clothes;  but  now  that  she 
had  shed  them,  as  the  caddis  worm  its  house,  and  flown  out 
on  iridescent  wings,  he  was  actually  allowing  important  affairs 
to  wait — he  was  such  a  solid-looking  fellow  and  he  had  walked 
so  briskly — in  the  mere  hope  of  a  chance  occurring  that 
would  enable  him  to  address  her!  What  pleased  her  even 


100  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

more  was  that,  though  his  admiration  was  unfeigned,  he  did 
not  dare  approach  without  excuses.  She  preened  herself  a 
little,  lifted  her  chin,  and  walked  on  in  the  style  of  an  accus- 
tomed conqueror. 

Miss  Fortune  had  sent  him,  too ;  for,  though  Violet  had 
listened  and  believed,  she  had  been  very  humble  in  the  presence 
of  Mr.  Phillips;  and,  when  he  left  her  there  on  Broadway, 
it  was  as  though  a  stick  had  been  removed  from  a  radiant 
climbing  vine.  For  all  her  gay  expensive  gown,  her  simple, 
costly,  wide-brimmed  hat,  her  dainty  little  shoes,  her  hair 
and  skin  glowing  from  the  diligent  efforts  of  beauty-parlor 
artists,  she  had  felt  forlorn  and  helpless.  Her  brilliant  future 
had  seemed  probable  enough  under  the  persuasive  eloquence 
of  Mr.  Phillips;  but — well,  she  needed  just  such  a  tangible 
manifestation  as  the  solid-looking  man's  respectful  admiration. 
Now  she  reflected  that  she  had  been  a  fool  to  doubt  anyone 
so  nearly  divine  as  her  benefactor.  "Always  remember,  it 
is  not  that  you  are  such  a  sharp,  but  that  the  world  is  such 
a  flat,"  had  been  his  parting  admonition;  "especially  on 
Broadway,  where  almost  everybody  is  bluffing  at  being  some- 
thing he  isn't.  With  your  good  looks  set  off  by  those  clothes, 
if  you  can't  be  a  Ninon  de  1'Enclos  you  ought  to  go  die. 
Anybody  ought  to  get  by  in  this  stupid  world — once  they've 
had  their  chance." 

He  was  so  scornfully  wise,  she  thought  wistfully;  if  he 
could  only  have  stayed,  she  would  have  been  a  star  in  a  year. 
Then  ambition  seized  her.  Independent  of  any  desire  for 
aggrandizement,  she  aspired  to  achieve  that  she  might  win 
his  praise.  She  had  no  notion  who  he  was,  nor  what  his 
occupation,  aims,  antecedents :  only  knew  that  last  night,  when 
he  had  condescended  to  caress  her  as  one  might  a  pet  kitten, 
she  had  been  raised  to  the  nth  degree  of  enchantment.  She 
would  have  been  content  to  have  remained  an  adoring  kitten 
had  he  stayed — for  his  careless  caresses  to  have  done  damnable 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  101 

things;  but  it  was  apparent  that  a  pet  kitten  could  not  hold 
him ;  that  he  had  an  unrealized  vision  of  a  magnificent  creature, 
skilled  in  the  arts  of  dress  and  conversation,  learned  in  book- 
lore;  able,  industrious,  even  illustrious.  If  he  could  see  that 
vision  realized  in  her,  maybe  next  time  he  saw  her  .  .  . 

In  that  moment,  other  men  ceased  to  exist  for  Violet,  save 
only  as  means  to  an  end.  She  became  a  woman  with  a  purpose. 
Such  being  the  case,  she  would  not  deviate  from  it  through 
any  other  emotions,  for  there  would  be  no  other  emotions. 
A  woman  can  succeed  only  by  following  one  star:  she  has 
not  enough  trained  ability  to  follow  several;  and  knowing 
this,  subconsciously,  she  becomes  deaf  to  pity,  mercy,  kind- 
ness, enjoyment — all  the  things  of  life  that  interfere  with 
her  purpose — until  she  has  achieved  it.  So,  when  Violet  Van- 
dam  walked  into  her  future  manager's  office,  she  was  clad  in 
a  coat  of  mail,  helmeted,  greaved,  corseleted,  spurred  and 
sworded.  Soft  and  clinging  to  the  eye,  she  was  steel  to  the 
touch ;  and  confidence  in  her  armor  and  weapons  gave  her  an 
air  of  haughty  aloofness  no  unassisted  effort  could  have 
achieved.  It  impressed  the  impression-proof  office  boy  who, 
daily,  had  a  hundred  tales  of  unrealized  importance  tried  on 
him  by  strategic  unknowns  seeking  to  storm  the  managerial 
fortress.  It  impressed  the  manager's  secretary  and  general 
factotum  when  the  awed  office  boy  brought  Violet  within  the 
keep.  It  even  impressed  the  brain-fagged  gentleman  in  the 
job  too  big  for  his  abilities:  and  he  saw  daily  hundreds  of 
Cleopatras  and  Circes. 

He  gave  her  a  note  to  his  producer;  a  sealed  note  urging 
him,  even  if  he  had  already  picked  his  chorus,  to  replace  one 
with  this  new  find;  for  the  manager's  projected  show  was  a 
summer  show  and,  though  he  paid  enormous  salaries  to 
comedians  and  prima  donnas,  dancers  and  eccentrics,  he  knew 
that,  without  a  female  chorus  that  would  arouse  in  each  male 
seat-purchaser  the  hope  of  or  the  desire  to  become  personally 


102  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

acquainted,  his  show  was  forty  per  cent,  finance.  The  chorus 
girl  was  star:  you  saw  her  pictures  in  dress  clothes,  street 
clothes,  short  clothes,  ballet  clothes,  no  clothes — almost;  and 
these  pictures  must  have  pretty  faces  and  dazzling  limbs,  or 
the  costumes  were  wasted.  Experience?  Bah — he  had  the 
great  Bob  Ledyard  who  could  make  a  professional  out  of  an 
amateur  in  three  weeks'  rehearsal;  the  younger  the  better — 
they  worked  harder  and  didn't  tell  you  they  were  there  as  a 
favor  to  the  management  and  that  their  wages  didn't  pay  for 
their  maids  and  taxicabs. 

Violet  never  needed  the  note;  so  later  she  broke  it  open 
and,  reading  what  the  manager  had  written,  gained  extra  hope 
in  realizing  her  vision.  When  she  arrived,  Bob  Ledyard  had  not 
yet  picked  his  chorus.  Upon  the  great  Garden  stage  five  hun- 
dred girls  were  arranged  in  tiers,  a  ballroom  scene  having  been 
set  by  Bob's  orders  and  the  girls  told  to  stand  on  the  thirty- 
five  steps.  Violet  was  guided  by  an  assistant  stage-manager 
to  a  group  of  about  her  height.  In  a  chair  placed  in  the  exact 
center  of  the  stage  "apron" — that  semicircle  of  painted  tin 
where  are  the  footlights — Bob  Le^yard's  mighty  bulk  reposed, 
and  he  surveyed  the  assembled  applicants  with  an  eye  that  held 
only  impersonal  regard  for  the  best  effects  to  be  gained  by 
selecting  one-fifth  of  the  five  hundred  applicants.  Presently  he 
began  to  call  the  names  of  girls  who  had  worked  for  him  before 
and  whom  he  had  found  satisfactory:  only  the  best  of  these, 
however,  for  he  perceived  many  fresh  and  blooming  faces 
among  the  newcomers,  and  sentiment  could  not  be  allowed 
to  sway  him;  with  five  rival  summer  shows  he  must  have 
the  prettiest  chorus.  When  it  came  the  strangers'  turn,  Violet 
was  the  first  one  at  whom  he  pointed  his  finger.  She  came 
down  to  him  as  she  had  seen  the  others  do. 

Something  in  his  face,  scornful  yet  kindly  and  efficient, 
that  reminded  her  somehow  of  Phillips — told  her  to  drop  her 
pose  in  Ledyard's  presence :  told  her  that  she  should  be  truth- 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  103 

ful.  "Dancer?"  he  asked.  "I  like  to  dance,"  she  replied. 
"Sing?"  "I  like  to  sing,  too."  "Like  to  work?"  he  asked, 
smiling:  she  understood  a  doubt  had  occurred  to  him  because 
of  her  expensive  clothes.  "You  wouldn't  keep  me  if  I  didn't 
work,  would  you?"  she  asked  naively;  "and  I've  got  to  work 
to  live:  besides,  I  want  to  be  a  big  actress."  She  said  it  all 
in  a  breath,  knowing  among  so  many  girls  she  would  be  lost 
unless  she  managed  to  make  a  favorable  impression  now.  And 
she  did:  Ledyard  smiled  with  a  sort  of  impersonal  affection; 
in  this  musical-comedy  world  of  lazy  beauties,  stupid  beauties, 
insolent  beauties,  it  was  downright  encouraging  to  meet  a 
beauty  who  wanted  to  live  on  her  wages  and  work  to  succeed. 
Her  name,  when  she  gave  it,  was  penciled  on  Bob's  mind  as 
well  as  on  his  secretary's  books.  He  crossed  to  the  piano  and 
whispered  to  the  musical  director. 

"No  matter  what  kind  of  pipes  that  girl's  got,  keep  her. 
Her  face  and  figure's  worth  it.  If  she  can't  sing,  I'll  make  a 
dancer  out  of  her."  But  Violet  could  sing :  not  extraordinarily, 
not  sufficiently  well  to  be  retained  for  her  voice  alone,  but 
with  a  sort  of  tremulous  wistfulness,  that,  in  a  star,  with 
the  orchestra  at  pianissimo  pitch,  is  called  by  the  critics  "small 
but  sweet."  Her  dancing,  too,  had  quality:  it  was  the  grace- 
ful, untrained  swaying  of  a  healthy  young  animal.  After 
the  first  day  or  so,  Ledyard  began  to  wonder  if  he  should  not 
do  something  with  her. 

In  a  summer  show,  a  so-called  revue — at  all  events  pat- 
terned after  the  Parisian  model  to  the  extent  that  there  are 
numerous  unconnected  scenes  requiring  many  new  characters 
to  appear  briefly  and  forever  after  be  still — some  of  the  chorus 
people  are  selected  with  an  eye  to  past  performances  in  the 
matter  of  "bits,"  the  playing  of  small  parts;  so  it  lies  within 
the-  power  of  the  producer  to  raise  many  to  the  temporary 
prominence  of  "lines";  necessities  of  the  libretto  that  have 
been  responsible  for  many  accidental  first-night  "hits."  And, 


104  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

as  Violet  accepted  Ledyard  as  the  avatar  of  the  absent  Phillips 
— a  person  who  could  help  her  to  realize  her  vision — she  was 
so  industrious  about  practising  difficult  dance  steps  in  the 
wings  and  at  home  that  Ledyard,  after  fuming  and  swearing 
over  a  group  of  difficile  dancers,  one  day  turned  them  over 
to  Violet.  "I  can't  waste  any  more  time  with  you,"  he  said 
furiously;  "let  this  little  girl  here — who  seems  to  have  some 
human  intelligence — try  to  beat  it  into  your  pure  concrete 
domes" — and  sent  them  downstairs  to  a  dressing-room.  From 
that  time  on,  when  the  librettist  had  lines  he  did  not  know 
where  to  place,  Ledyard  gave  them  to  Violet,  until,  by  the  time 
the  show  opened,  she  was  playing  a  messenger  boy  in  Scene  I, 
a  shopgirl  in  Scene  IV,  Lady  Diana  Carstairs  in  Act  II, 
Scene  I,  and  The  American  Beauty  in  the  finale,  none  existing 
for  a  longer  period  than  two  minutes,  nor  requiring  the  versa- 
tility their  varied  character  would  seem  to  indicate:  in  fact, 
serving  only  one  good  purpose — to  bring  Violet  to  the  atten- 
tion of  the  management  so  that  wljen  Ledyard  suggested  her 
for  a  small  but  striking  part  in  an  operetta  he  rehearsed  next, 
they  had  sufficient  knowledge  of  her  to  accede.  The  operetta 
never  saw  New  York:  one  of  those  spineless  affairs  bought 
only  because  a  foreign  composer's  belated  hit  with  another 
sow  permitted  him  to  rid  himself  aH  exorbitant  prices  of  much 
early  provincial  work  that  smelled  strongly  of  the  German 
domestic  virtues,  it  expired  "on  the  one-nighters" ;  but  Ledyard 
gained  further  confidence  in  Violet's  ability,  and,  as  the  man- 
agement desired  "to  save  a  salary,"  brought  her  back  to  the 
Garden  and  the  show  where  she  had  begun;  no  longer  as  a 
chorus  girl  but  in  the  part  of  a  resigning  "principal." 

A  long  and  tedious  tour  followed — week,  half -week  and 
one-night  stands  in  cities,  towns  and  hamlets:  the  names  of 
half  the  latter  unknown  to  the  players,  sleeping  on  a  train 
that  took  them  to  one  for  a  mantinee,  another  train  and  another 
town  for  the  evening's  performance,  a  third  train  and  a 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  105 

longer  "jump"  to  make  the  next  night  stand — and  so  on  ad 
nauseam.  Violet's  only  consolations  were  the  occasional  let- 
ters she  received  from  Phillips — who  seemed  to  cover  as  much 
ground  as  she  did,  his  postmarks  always  different — and  the 
books  he  continued  to  recommend,  of  which  she  laid  in  a 
supply  for  her  travels;  gaining  no  particular  popularity  with 
companions  for  preferring  puerile  printed  words  to  their 
sprightly,  entertaining  and  scathing  discourse  about  "rubes" 
and  "rube  towns,"  unappreciative  managements,  rotten  libret- 
tist's who  couldn't  write  decent  parts  for  magnetic  artistes, 
composers  whose  tunes  they  had  sung  years  before  he  wrote 
them,  press  agents  who  were  always  getting  stuff  in  the  papers 
about  the  show  and  not  about  them.  But  Violet  was  firm: 
Phillips  had  warned  her  of  danger  here. 

"Most  theatrical  people  never  read  anything  but  press 
notices  and  the  Morning  Clarion,  never  think  there  is  any 
necessity  to  improve  themselves — trusting  in  God's  recognition 
of  their  innate  superior  qualities,"  he  wrote.  "If  you  stick 
around  much  with  that  mob  you'll  ofily  learn  to  love  yourself 
passionately,  incessantly.  No  company  is  preferable  to  poor 
company.  Anyhow,  superior  people  are  never  lonely:  they've 
got  too  much  to  study  and  think  about,  too  much  to  read.  You 
should  come  back  from  this  road  tour  fairly  well  educated  .  .  ." 

Which  she  did.  But  her  study  on  the  road  brought  her 
something  else — for,  following  the  advice  of  Phillips's  avatar, 
Ledyard,  she  had  "gotten  up"  in  the  more  important  female 
roles,  and  this  saved  the  sending  on  of  an  expensive  sub- 
stitute when  one  "featured"  player  went  under  the  knife  in 
St.  Louis.  So,  by  way  of  recompense,  the  management  had 
directed  the  librettist  of  the  new  summer  show  to  fit  her  with 
a  "regular"  part,  and  Ledyard  used  her  as  the  exponent  of 
a  style  of  sensational  dancing  and  pantomime — mostly  "fake" 
. — which  was  then  exciting  the  impressionable  and  ignorant 
New  York  public:  a  "vampire"  dance,  of  which  the  chief 


106  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

requirements  were  that  one  should  have  a  pretty  face,  pretty 
limbs  and  a  graceful  body.  Attired  only  in  a  silver  sheath 
that  stretched  diagonally  from  left  shoulder  to  right  thigh, 
with  a  huge  rose  pinned  in  its  center,  and  her  fine  spun  hair 
loose  over  her  shoulders — the  remainder  of  her  body  bare — 
Violet  made  blase  first-nighters  gasp  and  speak  of  her  thickly; 
and,  as  she  stood  at  the  top  of  a  woodland  path  in  ghostly 
moonlight,  would  have  caused  Burne  Jones  to  scorn  his  famous 
Vampire  and  paint  another  with  her  as  model. 

Thus  she  became  one  of  those  wild  instantaneous  "hits" 
that  New  York  idealizes  one  year  and  forgets  the  next,  unless 
a  duplicate  sensation  is  provided.  In  reality,  Violet  did 
nothing  unusual :  only  played  a  temptation  scene  with  a  shep- 
herd boy  supposed,  finally,  to  fall  dead  for  love  of  her:  this 
in  crude  dancing  and  pantomime,  the  story  printed  on  the 
program,  so  primitive  anyhow  that  it  needed  no  great  skill 
to  elucidate  its  action.  Still,  had  she  not  gained  poise  and 
presence  by  hard  working  experience,  she  would  have  made 
false  steps,  betrayed  nervousness  in  her  movements.  As 
it  was,  she  was  hailed  by  the  most  absurd  metropolitan  critics 
in  the  world  as  the  "peer  of  any  Russian  Queen  of  Terpsi- 
chore"— a  judgment  indicative  of  their  absolute  lack  of 
knowledge  of  a  splendid  and  sufficient  art,  a  phrase  quoted 
widely  on  "three"  and  "eight-sheets,"  "heralds"  and  "dodgers," 
until  every  bill-board  and  ash-can  bore  mute  witness  to  Violet's 
fame.  But  Phillips  had  taught  her  to  be  analytic,  and  she 
knew  it  had  been  only  another  triumph  for  his  theory :  he  had 
raised  her  to  a  middle  estate  by  proper  costuming,  Ledyard 
to  a  high  one  by  supreme  artistry  of  scene  as  well. 

And  so  there  happened  that  which  Ledyard  afterward  de- 
clared gave  him  incipient  heart-failure:  the  thing  that  had 
never  been  done,  never  would  be  again.  Waiting  for  the  others 
to  arrive  for  rehearsal  the  next  afternoon,  actually  looking 
up  from  a  bundle  of  press  cuttings  designating  her  "won- 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  107 

drous,"  "incomparable,"  "divinely  delightful"  .  .  .  Violet 
Vandam  had  caught  his  eye,  colored  and  smiled. 

"Its  all  you,  Big  Chief,"  she  said :  "I  know.  You  painted 
a  great  picture,  then  dressed  me  up  and  stuck  me  in  the 
center.  Your  lights — what  wonderful  lights,  your  scene,  your 
pose,  your  scheme  .  .  .  and  these  foolish  papers  give  all  the 
credit  to  me.  But" — she  crossed  and  laid  her  arm  affection- 
ately on  his  shoulder — "we  know — don't  we  ?" 

Ledyard  gulped  once  or  twice,  tried  to  speak,  failed,  and 
stared  at  her,  unbelievingly;  finally  gasping  out:  "Vi,  I'm 
sorry,  but  you  weren't  meant  for  this  life;  you'll  never  be  a 
regular  actress.  You'll" — and,  forgetting  her  sex,  gave  her  a 
tremendous  slap  on  the  back — "die  young,  the  only  one  of 
your  breed."  He  turned  to  his  assistant.  *  "Do  you  think  I 
can  ever  get  anybody  to  believe  that?" 

His  assistant  shook  his  head  solemnly. 


Ill 

THEN  the  deluge  began,  the  prophecy  of  Phillips  was  fulfilled. 
In  hordes  and  swarms  they  came ;  idle  young  polo-players  and 
club  loungers ;  even  wealthier  older  men,  tired  sensualists  who 
searched  for  new  sensations ;  prosperous  artists  and  illustrators 
who  thought  to  escape  the  stigma  of  "Johnnie"  with  the  ex- 
cuse of  wanting  to  paint  her — for  no  one  protests  more 
strongly  against  the  appellation  than  the  real  "Johns"  them- 
selves; the  amateur  Bohemians  of  the  Charles  Lester  Lin- 
thicum  and  Chisholm  Cantilevel  sort — novelists,  story-writers, 
editors,  impractical  playwrights:  who  gave  "artistic"  dinners 
and  suppers  in  dim  candle-lit  studios  and  who  forever  sought 
to  convince  pretty  actresses  that  their  varying  professions  had 
spiritual  kinship,  claiming  to  find  all  sorts  of  hidden  mysti- 
cisms, messages  and  meanings  in  perfectly  patent  stage 


108  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

trickery ;  the  pet  poets  and  philosophers  of  society,  who,  while 
seeking  to  identify  fame  and  beauty  with  some  "cause,"  are, 
incidentally,  indecently  erotic,  amorous  in  the  divine  name 
of  something-or-other ;  the  parlor  Anarchists  and  drawing 
room  Socialists;  the  frankly  admiring  college  boys  and 
adolescents  in  general  who  are  grateful  for  a  few  kind  words 
and  permission  to  spend  their  monthly  allowances  in  a  single 
night;  and,  finally,  the  Tired  Business  Man  who  has  no  con- 
versation and  no  chic  but  much  more  money  than  any  of  the 
others,  and  who,  with  no  time  to  study  and  understand  the 
art  of  pleasing  women,  is  as  grateful  as  the  adolescents  if 
allowed  to  do  the  one  thing  at  which  he  shines — which  is  to 
spend  money  in  large  quantities:  a  class  that  dares  propose 
to  radiant  women  nothing  but  marriage,  their  name,  besides 
their  money,  being  all  they  have  to  give. 

To  the  last  class  belonged  Peter  Ferine,  Junior;  to  the 
second,  the  wealthy  middle-aged  sensualist,  John  Bulkington, 
3d ;  and  of  their  own  and  all  the  other  classes  who  sought  her, 
these  two  were  the  only  ones  that  came  to  know  Violet  Van- 
dam  with  any  degree  of  intimacy ;  for  Violet,  now  her  chance 
had  come,  terrified  lest  she  should  prove  unworthy  of  it,  met 
no  one  until  she  had  heard  from  Phillips ;  receiving  expensive 
floral  and  saccharine  tributes,  jewelry  and  invitations  all  with 
apathy.  And,  when  she  got  his  letter,  she  eliminated  from 
the  running,  without  even  meeting  them,  all  gay  young  men, 
artists  and  other  amateur  Bohemians,  parlor  poets  and  philoso- 
phers, college  boys,  youths  in  general ;  all  save  serious-minded 
wealthy  persons. 

"Don't  think  you  can  take  presents  promiscuously  and  be 
seen  in  restaurants  with  a  different  man  each  night,  without 
getting  a  cheap,  common  reputation,"  her  mentor  wrote  from 
Hot  Springs.  "Any  women  who  sells  her  conversation  and 
her  company  for  taxicabs,  suppers  and  champagne,  who  listens 
to  conversations  with  double  meanings  and,  finally,  to  down- 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  109 

right  smutty  talk,  might  just  as  well  go  the  limit.  Her  escorts 
boast  anyhow — it  being  the  nature  of  such  brutes  to  be  afraid 
to  confess  failure  for  fear  other  men  have  succeeded  and  will 
give  them  the  horse  laugh.  Anyhow,  if  a  woman's  mind  is 
unclean,  her  body  doesn't  matter:  the  mind,  the  brain,  the 
soul,  call  it  what  you  like,  lives  a  few  thousand  or  a  few 
million  years,  maybe  forever ;  the  body  about  sixty  or  seventy : 
if  the  mind  learns  to  be  clean,  the  body  soon  follows  suit — 
as  in  your  own  case.  But  when  the  mind  gets  diseased — 
good-night ! 

"But,  to  get  down  to  the  practical  business  of  life,  you're 
looking  for  a  settlement:  enough  money  to  make  you  inde- 
pendent of  men  for  life;  so  don't  make  any  mistakes.  Mar- 
riage doesn't  much  matter  except  as  a  proof  of  the  man's 
seriousness:  in  fact,  you're  better  off  wwmarried  if  you  get 
a  settlement  just  the  same;  because  it's  highly  improbable 
you're  going  to  meet  the  rich  man  you  can  love — money  seems 
to  ruin  them  as  companions  somehow — and  you  don't  want 
him  holding  on  by  that  legal  tie  when  you  need  your  freedom 
to  enjoy  his  contribution.  However,  it's  just  as  well  to  get 
him  to  ask  you  to  marry  him  and  then  tell  him,  sadly,  that 
a  foolish  childish  marriage  of  yours  still  prevents  the  perfec- 
tion of  your  maturer  love  being  realized.  If  you  are  really 
clever,  you  should  be  able  to  get  the  money  on  his  mere  hope 
of  marrying  you  when  you  have  managed  to  find  the  mythical 
wandering  husband  and  divorced  him — I'll  play  the  part  by 
mail  if  you  like ;  and  I'm  better  than  a  raw  hand  at  anything 
pertaining  to  larceny.  .  .  ." 

If  she  could  have  seen  him  as  he  wrote  a  portion  of  that 
letter — when  he  winced  over  an  ugly  thought  and  hastened  to 
spur  her  on  to  "cleverness"  as  a  means  of  avoiding  its  realiza- 
tion— Violet  Vandam  might  have  felt  less  sick  at  heart,  might 
have  believed  that,  after  all,  he  was  not  unconcerned  over  the 
thought  of  her  becoming  another  man's  property  as  his  coldly 


110  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

casual  advice  seemed  to  imply.  But,  next  morning,  she  con- 
sidered that,  as  yet,  Phillips  knew  her  only  as  the  tawdry 
Cinderella  to  whom  he  had  played  godmother.  When  he  saw 
her  on  the  stage  .  .  .  when  he  heard  her  speak  of  men  and 
things  as  his  books  had  taught  her,  when  she  took  him  to  dine 
in  her  own  country  home  amid  surroundings  that  proved  a 
chaste  and  informed  taste  .  .  . 

That  home,  those  surroundings:  she  did  not  have  them 
yet.  She  must  hasten,  do  what  must  be  done,  however  dis- 
agreeable. .  .  .  She  turned  to  her  mail,  tossing  most  of  it 
into  the  wastebasket,  finally,  pausing  over  the  name  of  "John 
Bulkington  3d" — Peter  Perine,  Junior,  having  yet  to  be  heard 
from.  Bulkington's  note  of  discreet  admiration,  accompany- 
ing a  rare  and  expensive  Vampire  study — "Dracula" — which 
now  hung  in  the  theater  lobby — she  answered  in  her  best 
slanted  handwriting — an  affectation  she  had  learned  from  a 
convent-girl  friend — expressing  gratification  that  one  so  well 
known  as  a  connoisseur  of  the  arts  should  have  found  her 
humble  efforts  pleasing;  but — chiefly — informing  him  that  she 
never  dined  or  supped  in  restaurants  alone  even  with  one  so 
justly  famed;  but  would  he  drop  in  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  let 
her  thank  him  in  person  for  a  wonderful  inspiring  gift? 
Which  was  just  the  sort  of  letter  to  impress  Mr.  Bulkington. 


IV 

THUS  Violet  became  known  to  awe-inspired  adventurers 
as  "the  girl  who  threw  Bulkington  down";  again,  despite 
appearances,  proving  that  Miss  Fortune  was  still  "on  the 
job,"  directing  her  triumphal  progress.  Violet  had  not  meant 
so  to  treat  Mr.  Bulkington:  who  had  erected  a  theater  for 
one  young  woman  he  fancied,  inscribing  her  in  some  new 
comic  History  of  New  YOtk  by  identifying  her  name  with  the 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  111 

building;  also,  for  the  same  lady,  a  treasure-house  just  off  the 
Park — on  the  "right"  side,  too,  amid  a  flustered  and  protesting 
aristocracy,  a  villa  at  Nice  and  a  Long  Island  chateau,  the 
latter  brought  piece  by  piece  from  Normandy.  She  had  been 
the  only  one  he  took  seriously  until  he  met  Violet;  but  even 
his  casual  affairs  had  been  marked  by  a  Lucullan  liberality, 
had  established  for  life  young  women  of  mediocre  talents.  All, 
this  Violet  knew  and  urged  upon  herself  repeatedly:  no  more 
strife  or  struggle,  all  the  good  things  of  life  forever  after: 
it  would  not  have  seemed  a  hard  bargain  for  one  who,  only 
a  few  years  earlier,  had  given  herself  carelessly  to  a  haber- 
dashery clerk  and  to  a  bounder  in  gay  tweeds:  afterward 
taking  her  body  into  the  cheapest  market. 

But  it  was  as  Phillips  had  written :  when  the  mind  is  clean, 
the  body  must  be ;  and  a  girl  cannot  worship  a  star  unceasingly 
for  any  long  space  and  then  see  the  things  of  earth  with  the 
same  eyes.  Something  had  awakened  in  Cinderella  that  night, 
outcast  as  she  was,  emerging  from  an  opium  den  to  spend  the 
night  with  a  stranger  she  had  known  only  two  hours — and 
he  a  thief ! — something,  nevertheless,  fine  and  clean.  Her 
affair  with  Jim  Healey  had  been  the  outcome  of  starvation 
for  a  little  happiness — her  life  had  contained  none  of  the  in- 
nocent joys  of  youth.  She  had  gone  from  a  strict  Calvinistic 
home  and  daily  drudgery  to  the  little  liberty  that  her  tired 
body  could  take  after  ten  hours  of  work  each  day:  a  body, 
moreover,  unnourished  by  good  food  or  fresh  air  or  healthful 
exercise;  her  mind  one  that  swung  like  a  pendulum  between 
stern  dark  belief  in  hell's  eternal  fire,  and  its  concomitant, 
that  God  could  be  cheated  if  the  world  did  not  find  out.  Her 
affair  with  the  tweed-clad  bounder  was  a  choice  between  two 
evils:  a  return  to  hunger  and  loneliness  or  another  yielding 
of  herself — and,  as  she  still  believed,  then,  that  if  one  had 
once  taken  his  feet  from  the  narrow  path,  damnation  was 
sure — why  not?  Which  also  explains  her  position  in  the 


112  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

market-place.  Had  Phillips  not  met  her,  she  would  have 
learned  to  drink  to  drown  her  fear  of  that  certain  damnation, 
and  would  have  fallen,  by  rapid  stages,  to  Fourteenth  Street, 
the  Bowery,  Chinatown  and  the  morgue. 

But  she  hardly  knew  Cinderella  now  except  to  wonder  at 
her.  No  doubt  Phillips  could  have  done  nothing  with  her, 
his  words  and  money  pitifully  wasted,  had  not  she,  in  that 
night  of  careless  caresses,  lost  all  feeling  of  sin,  for,  though 
she  had  given  her  body  before,  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
given  herself.  And  so  a  white  flame  had  been  lighted — the 
flame  of  knowledge;  that  since  had  fed  on  all  that  was  best 
in  poets  and  philosophers;  and,  now,  she  looked  upon  the 
world  with  eyes  of  understanding.  So  looking  upon  Mr. 
Bulkington,  seeing  his  heavy  body  shake  with  ill-concealed 
and  ugly  passion,  no  saurian  with  foul  musky  breath  could 
have  more  affrighted  and  repelled  her.  He  had  bided  his 
time  like  a  gentleman:  had  made  no  bargain,  had  lavished 
on  her  unusual  gifts  of  marbles,  paintings,  tapestries,  hangings 
— any  of  which  would  have  done  justice  to  a  museum:  had 
placed  at  her  disposal  his  most  expensive  town  car,  was  only 
too  delighted  to  discover  oddly  shaped  or  curiously  set  jewelry 
which  would  fitly  adorn  her — even  made  decent  the  fact  that 
he  bought  her  clothes,  by  urging  upon  her  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  be  allowed  to  gratify  his  bizarre  theories  concerning 
women's  raiment:  so  that  nowadays  she  looked  like  a  Byzan- 
tine princess,  setting  a  style  that  was  the  despair  of  modistes 
and  of  women  who  did  not  have  her  unusual  hair  and  color- 
ing, her  tall,  slender  figure,  nor  the  advantage  of  a  designer 
who  was  called  a  "master  financier."  Undoubtedly,  Bulking- 
ton had  a  deep  and  devout  art  sense  that  might  have  saved 
him,  had  his  father  not  insisted  on  his  following  a  business 
the  third  Bulkington  hated. 

"You'll  give  up  a  wonderful  future?"  he  asked  in  in- 
credulous amazement,  when  she  repulsed  him,  with  finality. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  113 

"Why,  I'll  make  you  the  best-known  actress  in  America. 
These  theater  and  producing  managers — bah!"  He  snapped 
his  fingers.  "Why,  I  or  my  associates  own  most  of  their 
theaters,  back  half  their  shows,  can  break  the  biggest  of  them 
• — like  that !  This  theater  game  isn't  worth  a  big  man  bothering 
about,  so  we  let  the  little  fellows  run  it — but  I'll  step  in  and 
take  enough  to  make  you  famous.  You  know  what  I  did 
for  Yvonne  Maxfield?  I'll  do  more  for  you!" 

He  was  wise  enough  to  make  no  passionate  appeal :  he  had 
a  sense  of  humor  and  knew  how  ridiculous  such  must  seem 
from  a  man  of  his  girth  and  gout;  but  he  stated  plainly  a 
proposition  it  seemed  no  woman  in  her  senses  would  refuse. 
Nevertheless,  Violet,  with  averted  face  that  she  might  not 
see  the  ugly  picture  of  him  in  amorous  guise,  did  refuse ;  and 
he  went  his  way,  raging,  then  wondering,  finally  respecting. 
He  was  too  big  a  man,  unscrupulous  buccaneer  though  he 
was,  not  to  recognize  the  bigness  in  others;  and,  unlike  the 
small  and  despicable  sort,  could  afford  to  acknowledge  defeat. 
It  was  preferable  to  keeping  silent  about  such  an  unusual 
character  as  Violet. 

"To  think,"  he  told  several  of  his  confidants,  repeating 
his  incredible  discomfiture  in  full,  "to  think  of  turning  mq 
down!"  Such  a  story  spread  rapidly  through  the  clubs.  Al- 
most nightly  at  the  Garden,  Violet's  entrance  was  heralded 
by  a  hush:  out  of  which,  at  her  appearance,  came  whispers 
from  groups  of  well-groomed  Avenue  mondaines,  men  and 
women  alike.  ".  .  .  The  girl  who  turned  old  Bulkington 
down." 

In  one  of  those  groups  one  night  was  Peter  Ferine,  Junior, 
whose  father  owned  the  biggest  department  store  in  the  city: 
who,  himself,  unlike  most  rich  men's  sons,  was  a  hard-working 
member  of  the  Exchange;  a  great  "catch":  debutantes  put 
on  their  prettiest  frocks  for  him,  but  he  was  too  busy  to 
notice.  His  adventures  had  been  confined  to  intrigues  with 


114  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

women  on  public  sale:  intrigues  for  which  he  paid  bitterly 
in  remorse,  his  ideals  of  "true  womanhood"  remaining  un- 
changed. Of  the  stage  he  knew  nothing:  he  had  not  even 
supped  with  a  chorus  girl ;  so,  when  he  saw  Violet  and  heard 
of  her  amazing  chastity,  there  were  no  ugly  reminders  of 
others  of  her  class  to  interfere  with  his  dreams. 

"Imagine:  how  many  girls,  even  of  our  kind,  would  have 
refused?"  he  heard  one  of  the  women  of  his  party  saying. 
It  disgusted  him  to  hear  such  "cynical"  talk :  and  from  women 
with  every  advantage  of  birth,  breeding,  education  and  luxury, 
too.  How  different  that  brave  little  heroine  back  there,  work- 
ing hard  for  a  living,  engaged  in  a  performance  that  must 
outrage  her  delicate  sense  of  virtue!  He  hated  the  Vampire 
Dance;  hated  the  thought  that,  nightly,  this  shrinking  girl 
must  expose  her  beautiful  body  to  evil-minded  men.  He  did 
not  realize  that  he,  himself,  was  capable  of  only  the  grossest 
passions:  that,  when  married  to  this  girl,  his  amours  would 
in  no  way  differ  from  those  vulgar  ones  of  the  past ;  but  the 
pill  of  vice  would  be  coated  with  the  sugar  of  respectability,  so 
that  he  could  run  riot  with  his  conscience's  full  approval.  Had 
there  been  less  of  Violet's  milk-white  legs  and  body  exposed, 
his  "great  love"  might  not  have  surged  so  hotly  to  his  brain; 
but,  of  course,  vulgar  desire  was  not  in  keeping  with  thoughts 
of  the  girl  who  had  "thrown  down  Bulkington" :  so  it  must 
be  that  purest  of  passions,  love.  Such  is  always  the  way  of 
the  Puritan:  those  shamefaced  men  who  prowl  the  streets 
late  at  night,  accosting  street  women  in  husky,  strained  voices, 
are  always  those  who  raise  loudest  their  squeals  against 
women's  immorality;  who  speak  bitterly  of  shattered  ideals 
if  their  wives  or  sweethearts  betray  human  failings  .  .  . 

So  Peter  Ferine,  Junior,  would  loftily  tell  himself  of 
Violet:  "/  don't  think  of  her  in  that  way  at  all";  until  he 
had  wooed  her  with  respectful  admiration,  adored  her  as  some 
Saint  Cecilia,  declared  he  was  not  fit  to  marry  her,  and  then 


LADYBIRDS;  IN  LUCK  115 

proved  it,  after  marriage.  But  he  could  awake  each  morning 
with  a  pleasant  sense  of  virtue  to  carry  his  conscience  through 
the  day,  and  it  would  all  be  highly  right  and  proper  because 
she  would  have  worn  orange  blossoms  and  have  been  breathed 
over  by  the  voice  of  a  respectable  and  snakeless  Eden. 


V 

HE  asked  her  to  marry  him  just  two  months  later,  after  a 
courtship  that  included  every  possible  present  the  ingenuity  of 
man  could  conceive.  She  had  permitted  his  caresses,  his  near- 
presence:  had  used  all  her  ability  as  an  actress  to  convince 
him  that  he  would  have  been  just  as  successful  had  he  been 
penniless ;  and,  then,  next  day,  after  having  permitted  nothing 
to  interfere  with  his  dream  of  eternal  (but  respectable)  license, 
she  talked  to  him  calmly  and  sanely.  She  could  not  abandon 
her  economic  independence  even  for  love — a  useful  phrase 
from  a  book  recently  read.  If  he  wanted  her  to  give  up  the 
stage,  he  must  make  her  independence  otherwise  possible :  she 
could  not  daily  ask  him  for  money:  such  marriages  were 
degrading.  And  "if  love  grew  cold,"  he  would  not  wish  her 
to  remain  with  him  just  for  the  sake  of  having  her  expenses 
paid,  or  else  have  a  long  and  vulgar  legal  wrangle  about  how 
much  alimony  should  be  awarded,  would  he?  Therefore  .  .  . 
wasn't  there  such  a  thing  as  a  marriage  settlement?  He 
leaped  up,  protesting  he  had  been  a  brute  not  to  suggest  it 
himself;  and,  soon  after,  papers  were  made  official  and  im- 
portant by  signatures  and  red  tape,  and  the  last  stage  of 
Phillip's  prophecy  was  reached:  she  was  a  woman  of  inde- 
pendent fortune,  and  still  unmarried. 

But  she  meant  to  pay:  the  marriage  would  have  taken 
place.  Phillips,  when  informed  of  Perine's  advent,  had  poured 
pails  of  water  over  her  flame:  the  star  had  hidden  itself  in 


116  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

dark  heavens ;  the  vision  would  be  ever  unrealized :  for  Phil- 
lips had  advised,  calmly  and  practically,  that  such  a  marriage 
was  ideal:  that  she  was  a  very  lucky  girl:  that  he  could  not 
imagine  why  she  hesitated;  and  so,  she  saw  at  last,  there 
was  no  stray  hope  for  her:  she  had  been  only  an  interesting 
experiment  to  him:  his  advice  and  letters  but  evidences  of  a 
scientist's  interest  in  an  insect  in  a  test  tube.  That  letter 
had  decided  her:  it  was  the  last  she  ever  received  from  him; 
but  his  final  message  was  a  telegram  that  came  on  the  day 
her  settlement  had  been  arranged — came  while  Ferine  was 
waiting  in  her  little  drawing-room  and  she  was  standing  before 
the  mirror  in  her  bedroom,  fastening  a  rubber  corset  over  a 
silk  shirt  and  gazing  at  her  mirrored  charms  in  dull  apathy: 
what  did  they  matter  now,  or  how  long  she  kept  her  tiresome 
fiance  waiting  for  their  drive? 

But  the  telegram  changed  all  that.  Ferine  had  never  seen 
her  so  alluringly  beautiful  as,  with  silky  hair  loose  over  her 
shoulders,  and  in  a  cherry-colored  kimono  held  together  with 
one  hand,  she  stretched  out  the  scrap  of  paper.  It  read, 
briefly : 

Am  in  the  Tombs  charged  with  conspiracy  to  defraud;  penalty  not 
less  than  seven  years.  Bail  not  allowed.  Ferine  can  square  things 
for  me.  Will  you  ask  him? 

PHILLIPS. 

Curiously  enough,  no  outside  opinions  can  change  a 
woman's  love,  no  incidents  unconnected  with  her,  affect  it:  a 
fact  that  makes  ridiculous  those  plays  and  novels  in  which 
the  heroine  crying:  "My  God — you  a  thief?"  ("forger"  or 
"murderer"  to  suit)  drives  her  lover  forth  forever.  So  Phil- 
lips, self-confessed  criminal  and  possible  convict,  was  still  the 
great  man  of  Violet's  vision,  just  as  desirable,  just  as  dearly 
loved.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Ferine  might  not  care 
]tp  have  a  brother-in-law  who  was  a  criminal.  The  "no  bail" 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  117 

phrase  frightened  her,  and,  with  no  thought  of  herself,  she 
took  the  surest  way  to  make  Ferine  exert  all  his  influence. 
"My  brother,"  she  sobbed  as  he  read:  "my  brother.  Ill 
die  if  he's  sent  away.  You  can  fix  it :  he  says  so  here.  Hurry, 
hurry,  hurry:  get  him  out — hurry!"  She  almost  pushed  him 
from  the  room  before  he  could  get  such  a  necessary  detail 
as  her  "brother's"  full  name  . 


VI 

PHILLIPS  had  been  right :  Ferine  could  "square"  it :  a  man 
as  rich  as  Ferine — representing  the  allied  Ferine  interests, 
can  "square"  anything  in  New  York.  He  went  directly  to 
the  "Old  Man"  on  Fourteenth  Street,  who,  from  time  to 
time,  arranged  certain  matters  of  legislation  in  favor  of  the 
"big  interests" ;  and  the  "Old  Man"  visited  the  Chief  of  Police, 
who  was  only  a  vice-regent  (in  a  double  sense),  the  "Old 
Man's"  deputy.  Whereupon  orders  were  issued  to  the  "Front 
Office"  to  forget  any  record  Phillips  might  have:  he  hadn't 
been  "mugged"  or  measured,  had  he?  That  was  enough — 
he  was  a  respectable  citizen  unjustly  suspected!  So  the  vic- 
tim of  Phillips's  wireless  wire-tapping  was  visited  by  a  "front- 
office  dick"  and  informed  that,  as  he  had  engaged  with  Phil- 
lips in  a  scheme  to  defraud  the  bookmakers,  he,  too,  must 
stand  trial  for  conspiracy,  otherwise  Phillips  could  not  be 
indicted — this  being  the  old  law,  recently  revised.  Moreover, 
if  the  judge  happened  to  be  in  a  nasty  mood,  he  (the  victim) 
might  also  be  sentenced.  He  had  best  see  the  Assistant 
District  Attorney  in  charge  of  the  case;  who,  being  another 
appointee  by  grace  of  Fourteenth  Street  and  looking  for  future 
preferment,  told  the  victim  that,  besides  running  a  chance 
of  imprisonment,  he  would  be  unlikely  to  get  back  his  money; 
whereas  it  had  been  hinted  if  the  case  were  withdrawn,  the 


118  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

accused  would  disgorge.  ...  So,  soon,  there  was  only  the 
duty  of  the  State  to  prosecute;  but  that  terminated  in  an 
apology  to  the  prisoner  for  false  imprisonment  and  the  in- 
formation from  the  judge — who  played  pinochle  with  the  "Old 
Man" — that  he  had  a  suit  against  his  defamer. 

The  clerk  called  the  name  as  "Franklin  Phillips,  Esquire" ; 
the  Judge  addressed  him  throughout  as  "Mr.  Phillips" ;  while, 
the  next  moment,  he  was  severely  chastising  with  words  one 
who  had  stolen  several  pounds  of  brass  from  a  railroad,  sen- 
tencing so  horrible  an  offender  against  property  to  the  limit 
of  the  law.  .  .  .  Phillips  was  not  surprised  at  the  newborn 
respect  of  the  judiciary  and  constabulary:  he  was  a  rich  man's 
friend. 

But  two  days  later  he  shuddered  to  think  what  would 
happen  if  he  ever  fell  into  the  hands  of  "justice"  again;  for, 
on  that  date,  he  stepped  out  of  the  famous  Little  Church 
where  a  rector  detained  from  dinner  had  gabbled  a  marriage 
ceremony  while  pulling  on  his  cassock,  making  Violet  Vandam 
— who  confessed  her  name  actually  to  be  Mary  Jones — Mrs. 
Frank  White,  which  was  as  near  to  Franklin  Phillips  as  he 
had  been  christened.  He  had  been  too  weak,  too  broken,  in 
his  cell,  to  keep  up  his  pose  longer :  had  admitted  he  had  gone 
on  the  principle,  with  her,  that  it  was  useless  to  make  her 
decent  and  successful  only  to  marry  her  to  a  crook.  .  .  . 

"But  you  don't  have  to  be  a  crook,  dearest,"  she  sobbed, 
holding  him  tight:  "I  have  lots  of  money  now — and  I  need 
you.  I've  got  some  reputation,  but  really  I'm  nobody.  You 
can  have  a  chance  to  use  your  brains — to  put  on  a  real  show, 
make  an  actress  out  of  me — a  real  actress.  It  won't  be  living 
on  my  money — I  knew  you'd  say  that;  it'll  be  hard  work. 
Oh,  Phillips,  please!" 

She  was  very  sorry  for  Ferine:  she  was,  really;  but — she 
argued — his  was  the  misfortune  of  war.  Was  she  to  be  un- 
happy? Anyhow,  it  was  all  his  father's  fault — Peter  Ferine, 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  119 

Senior's;  didn't  he  own  the  department  store  where  she  had 
been  underpaid;  and  if  her  wages  had  been  decent,  wouldn't 
she  be  there  still,  instead  of  being  forced  into  degradation — 
though,  afterward,  luckily,  uplifted!  What  if  she  did  owe 
Ferine  something — she  owed  Phillips  more;  and  what  had 
Ferine  given  her  anyhow  except  money  that  had  come  from 
underpaying  just  such  girls  as  she?  .  .  .  Yes,  let  him  go 
quarrel  with  his  father,  not  with  her.  And,  so,  easily,  she 
salved  her  conscience,  leaving,  however,  for  Europe  lest  Ferine 
prove  unreasonable ;  all  of  which  may  account,  partly,  for  the 
Socialist  papers,  nowadays,  calling  Ferine  the  most  brutal  of 
all  oppressors  of  the  poor. 

You  may  see  Franklin  Phillips  on  Broadway  any  day 
and  mistake  him  for  a  well-dressed  Englishman.  He  has  an 
office  near  Forty-second  Street,  where  he  plans  the  produc- 
tions of  plays  by  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Hauptmann  and  Wedekind, 
with  fliers  into  farce  to  provide  the  money  for  them,  and  an 
occasional  Shakesperean  production  for  his  wife,  the  well 
known  "star."  Each  night,  he  motors  out  to  their  Westchester 
farm.  "Broadway,"  he  said  to  me  the  other  day,  "Broadway: 
I  hate  it.  The  rottenest  morals  .  ,  ."  . 


II.  THE  FRONT-ROW  GIRL 


ALICE  AMES  remembers  the  time  when  Daisy  Deliria 
was  annoyed  if  less  than  six  hansoms  were  waiting 
for  her  after  the  performance.  To  have  a  dressing- 
room  that  was  a  bower  of  expensive  hothouse  flowers  was 
a  commonplace;  and  it  was  unnecessary  for  anyone  in  the 
company  to  buy  candy — there  was  always  a  five-pound  box 
open  in  Daisy's  room,  generally  attached  to  it  the  card  of 
some  man  who  had  been  "put  up"  for  the  best  clubs  during 
infancy.  The  flowers  often  obscured  totally  the  many  black- 
and-white  and  wash  drawings  of  Daisy  that  had  appeared 
in  magazines  and  other  periodicals;  and  there  was  an  excel- 
lent copy  in  oils  of  "Cleopatra,"  by  Cahusac  Deljian,  R.  A., 
for  which  Daisy  had  posed  in  London  while  she  was  a  member 
of  "The  Belle  of  New  York."  On  a  shelf  were  the  works 
of  many  of  the  younger  novelists,  the  flyleaf  of  each  inscribed 
with  Daisy's  name  and  the  author's  signature.  Her  dressing- 
table  was  covered  with  the  signed  photographs  of  well-known 
people  in  expensive  frames:  actors,  managers,  millionaires, 
playwrights;  concomitants  of  twenty-two-karat  buttonhooks, 
brushes  and  bottle  tops  and  a  "shaker,"  especially  designed 
by  a  peer's  goldsmith  to  accommodate  her  favorite  tooth- 
powder. 

A  silken  Samarcand  was  on  the  floor,  and  "art"  paper  on 
the  walls.  The  room  looked  more  like  a  society  leader's  than 
a  chorus  girl's;  and,  if  you  had  seen  Daisy  serving  tea  from 

120 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  121 

her  Russian  samovar  between  matinee  and  night  performances, 
had  observed  the  top  hats,  sticks  and  white  Italian  gloves 
held  in  left  hands  while  their  twins  juggled  cups,  saucers  and 
lettuce  sandwiches,  you  would  have  found  it  hard  to  believe 
that  you  were  in  a  theater;  and,  if  truly  you  were,  in  none 
less  than  Miss  Barrymore's  room.  Yet  in  1900,  Daisy  Deliria, 
despite  four  years'  trouping,  was  still  an  almost  lineless  lady 
of  the  front  row,  although  her  stage  gowns  were  designed 
by  one  of  our  foremost  artists  and  specially  executed  in  Paris 
by  Paul  Poiret. 

Alice  shared  Daisy's  room ;  although,  had  Daisy  been  other 
than  the  famous  Deliria,  it  would  have  been  more  orthodox 
to  say  that  Daisy  shared  Alice's ;  for  Alice  was  a  "principal," 
the  soubrette  of  the  Music  Hall.  But  the  management  would 
have  dispensed  with  their  prima  donna  rather  than  Daisy. 
Daisy  was  musical  comedy  incarnate.  She  attracted  the  sort 
of  patrons  who  pay  for  nightly  front-row  seats  whether  they 
use  them  or  not;  who  give  box  parties  and  like  to  be  noticed 
from  the  stage:  the  young  and  young-old  males  of  Wall  Street 
and  Money  Avenue;  artists  and  writers,  too  (as  you  have 
seen),  who  give  free  advertisements  in  costly  magazines,  ad- 
vertisements no  money  could  buy. 

Daisy  Deliria  was  that  ornithorynchus-paradoxus,  the  pure 
chorus  girl.  Daisy  separately  told  more  than  two  hundred 
enamored  swains  that  she  was  waiting  for  the  man  she  could 
love  "with  all  her  heart"  and  that  he  was  not  the  one.  She 
might  have  had  a  house  in  Central  Park  West  or  in  London's 
Mayfair;  motors,  liveried  servants,  a  sea-going  yacht,  the 
distaff  part  of  a  peerage.  Of  the  two  hundred,  anyone  who 
was  worth  less  than  a  million  had  a  name  that  was  interna- 
tional; at  least  seventy-five  of  them  proposed  marriage  and 
as  many  more  would  have  done  so  had  they  been  free  of  ties. 
The  others  offered  many  worldly  inducements;  a  princely 
settlement  paid  through  an  attorney  was  the  favorite.  These 


122  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

latter  Daisy  at  first  demanded  should  never  show  her  their 
faces  again.  When  she  became  more  accustomed  to  the  view- 
points of  Messrs.  Worldly- Wisemen  she  only  laughed  and 
spoke  mordantly  of  better  men  whose  honorable  proposals  she 
had  declined. 

So  she  had  spoken  to  Linlithgow  Bruce ;  but  the  comparison 
had  served  her  ill  for  once,  though  it  might  have  served  her 
well;  for  to  him  she  owes  the  best  advice  ever  given  her. 
Had  she  followed  it,  this  story  might  not  be  worth  telling. 

"You  are  keeping  yourself  for  God's  good  man  ?"  he  asked, 
with  a  faint  sneer.  "Well,  keep  going  on  as  you  do,  and 
you'll  get  fewer  proposals  such  as  you  say  Lord  Earlington's 
was  and  more  like  mine.  If  you're  a  good  girl  waiting  for 
undying  love  and  eugenic  children,  you'd  better  shake  cock- 
tails, champagne  and  all-night  restaurants." 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself,"  she  responded  coldly. 

"You  persist  in  misunderstanding."  Bruce  reached  for 
his  hat.  "Physical  purity  is  valuable  only  as  a  result  of 
mental  purity;  otherwise,  it's  only  selfishness  or  cowardice. 
And  selfish  or  cowardly  moralists  are  less  admired  by  real 
people  than  those  who  sin  courageously  according  to  convic- 
tions. D'you  understand?" 

"If  you  think  you  can  talk  me  into  being  a  bad  girl,  you're 
mistaken,"  said  Daisy  virtuously. 

Linlithgow,  who  was  now  at  the  door,  smiled. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  lost  all  personal  interest  in  you, 
Daisy,"  said  he.  "There  are  two  classes  of  people  I  admire: 
one  is  born  with  instinctive  knowledge  and  good  taste;  the 
other  has  its  feet  set  toward  the  palace  of  wisdom  even  if, 
as  Blake  says,  the  way  lies  over  the  road  of  excess.  I  thought 
you  were  one  of  the  latter;  and  I  am  enough  of  a  Greek  to 
desire  closer  companionship  with  you  to  bring  your  mind  to 
the  same  state  of  perfection  as  your  face  and  body.  One  can 
do  that  with  the  lower  class,  but  seldom  with  the  middle  class. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  123 

The  middle  classes  are  idol-worshipers;  and  Respectability 
and  What  the  World  Thinks  are  their  idols,  each  demanding 
daily  toil  of  human  lives." 

He  took  a  step  toward  her,  speaking  seriously.  He  was 
sorry  for  her. 

"Marry  somebody,  if  it's  only  the  stage  fireman — marry! 
Marriage  is  the  only  safe  thing  for  girls  like  you." 


II 

ALICE  AMES  often  shared  the  reflected  glory  of  Daisy's 
conquests,  Daisy  insisting  that  her  chum  should  be  invited  to 
her  own  triumphal  feasts.  But  Alice  was  not  popular  with 
Daisy's  admirers.  She  was  a  silent  little  person,  too  conscious 
of  her  lack  of  breeding  and  education  to  converse  freely  in 
the  presence  of  men  whom,  often,  she  caught  exchanging  sly 
grins  when  other  girls  mistook  homonyms  for  synonyms  or 
perfect  participles  for  past  tenses.  Alice  came  from  the  same 
lower-middle-class  folk  as  Daisy,  and  had  fought  her  way 
upward  with  more  difficulty,  having  only  brains  and  a  singing 
voice  instead  of  Daisy's  surpassing  loveliness.  Alice's  com- 
plexion lacked  the  Deliria  peach-blossom  effect ;  both  her  face 
and  her  thin  body  betrayed  one  whose  ancestors  had  been 
insufficiently  nourished;  although  painters  knew  that  when 
good  living  finally  overcame  this,  Alice's  gentian-blue  eyes 
would  inspire  rapture:  they  knew,  too,  that  her  low,  broad 
forehead  was  one  that  Praxiteles  would  have  been  eager  to 
reproduce  in  marble.  Possessing  that  shyness  which  is  allied 
with  appreciation  of  superior  things,  Alice  could  never  believe 
she  knew  much  about  either  singing  or  dancing,  and  con- 
sequently worked  so  hard  at  rehearsal  as  to  earn  even  the 
admiration  of  that  great  producer,  Bob  Ledyard. 

"Miss  Ames  is  one  in  a  thousand,"  Bob  had  said  when 


124  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

recommending  her  for  her  present  position.  "You  don't  have 
to  tell  her  anything  more  than  once — in  which  she  differs  from 
ninety-nine  actresses  in  a  hundred." 

Therefore  it  annoyed  Bob  Ledyard  when,  some  weeks  later, 
rehearsals  being  called  for  a  new  burlesque  to  be  interpolated, 
Alice's  place  was  taken  by  a  pretty,  brainless  girl  of  the  usual 
soubrette  type.  Daisy  informed  him  that  Alice  had  decided 
to  "study" — had  spoken  of  some  unexpected  legacy  when 
Daisy  visited  her  in  her  new  rooms  in  Washington  Square. 
The  "studying"  puzzled  Daisy.  Where  were  the  dancing- 
masters  and  singing-teachers  ?  What  was  the  use  of  an  actress 
taking  up  English  literature  and  economics?  Daisy  refused 
all  urgings  to  do  likewise,  returning  with  righteous  wrath 
some  books  Alice  loaned  her. 

"I'd  never  let  a  man  know  I  read  such  things,"  she  said; 
"and  I'd  never  let  any  man  I  cared  for  read  'em.  Why,  they've 
got  no  respect  for  women  at  all,  those  writers.  Anybody  'ud 
think  we  were  just  like  animals." 

"So  we  are,"  responded  Alice,  "women  more  than  men. 
Men  have  developed  their  minds,  their  spiritual  side.  We 
haven't." 

"Men  are  a  hundred  times  more  animals  than  we  are,"  Daisy 
responded  angrily.    "I  guess  you  don't  know  men  like  I  do." 

"I  don't  try  to  appeal  to  their  animal  sense  like  you  do, 
that's  why,"  her  friend  replied. 

This  speech  was  the  beginning  of  a  breach  that  never 
healed.  Explanations,  intended  to  abate  Daisy's  rage,  only 
made  matters  worse. 

"You  don't  understand,  dear,"  Alice  conceded  hastily. 
"But  just  consider.  The  minute  you  meet  a  man  what  re- 
sults? A  flirtation.  What's  a  flirtation?  An  appeal  to  his 
animal  sense,  isn't  it?  Lowering  your  eyelashes,  letting  him 
hold  your  hand,  speeches  that  lead  him  on — " 

"I  never  led  a  man  on  in  my  life,"  swore  Daisy. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  125 

"Just  so  far,"  Alice  again  conceded.  "But  why  let  him 
go  any  distance  if  you  intend  to  stop  him?  When  girls  make 
a  business  of  men,  when  they  do  it  to  get  clothes  and  food 
and  a  place  to  live,  I  don't  say  anything  except  that  I'm 
sorry  that's  the  best  they  can  do.  But  you  do  it  for  fun:  to 
feel  flattered,  to  feel  you're  fascinating." 

Daisy  drew  her  lips  down. 

"You'd  do  the  same  if  you  had  my  chances,"  she  said 
with  cruel  deliberation. 

"I  know  you're  prettier  than  I  am,"  returned  Alice,  flush- 
ing. "Still,  I've  had  plenty  of  chances,  too.  But  I  talk  about 
things  to  get  their  minds  away  from  flirtation.  I  try  to  make 
a  'pal'  of  a  man  if  I  like  him,  so  I've  got  lots  of  men  friends. 
You've  only  got  sweethearts  and  enemies.  They  begin  by 
loving  you  and  end  by  hating  you — and  it's  your  fault." 

"It's  not.  It's  their  own  beastliness,"  almost  screamed 
Daisy. 

"It's  not,"  returned  Alice,  just  as  angry  now.  "Some  men 
are  beasts.  But  if  the  others  treat  you  that  way,  it's  because 
you  can't  do  anything  but  flirt ;  because  you  won't  read,  won't 
study,  won't  learn  what's  worth  talking  about.  That's  why 
your  good  looks  are  going  to  be  your  curse;  see  if  they're  not ! 
If  you  won't  try  to  get  anything  to  replace  them,  for  heaven's 
sake  stop  dissipating  and  doing  the  f.hings  that  will  make  you 
lose  them,  or  in  ten  years  you'll  be  down  and  out." 

Daisy  took  herself  oft"  in  such  a  temper  that  she  could  not 
even  choke  out  a  formal  good-bye ;  and  the  anger  lasted  long. 
While  it  endured  she  learned  something  that  gave  her  a  good 
excuse  for  not  visiting  Alice  again.  "And  so  she's  Miss 
Prude,  is  she — preaching  at  me  whom  nobody  can  say  that 
against !  She  and  that  scoundrel  of  a  'Linny'  Bruce !" 

It  was  nearly  seven  years  before  she  saw  Alice  again:  years 
that  brought  many  changes  to  them  both;  during  which  she 
never  ceased  to  denounce  her  quondam  chum  as  a  hypocrite 


126  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

and  false  friend,  the  latter  because  of  the  growing  rumor  that 
linked  her  name  with  that  of  Linlithgow  Bruce.  So,  when 
she  celebrated  too  freely,  Daisy  often  would  recite  an  imagin- 
ary but  pathetic  charge  that,  gradually,  she  had  grown  to 
believe :  that  Alice  had  robbed  her  of  a  husband. 


Ill 

YES,  Daisy  drank.  One  cannot  sit  night  after  night  in 
cafes  where  champagne  flows  without  promoting  that  drink 
from  luxury  to  necessity.  After  retiring  at  daybreak,  one 
cannot  rise  before  noon  for  rehearsals  unless  some  stimulant 
forces  a  misused  body  into  kinetic  energy  it  does  not  possess. 
Daisy  was  receiving  few  offers  of  marriage  now,  her  name 
having  become  too  much  of  a  synonym  for  the  "gay  life," 
her  figure,  draped  and  undraped,  having  been  used  too  fre- 
quently by  pink  sporting  sheets,  to  please  the  wife-hunters. 
The  men  of  the  hard-to-enter  clubs  had  begun  to  regard  her 
as  homogeneous  with  the  young  lady  who  entertained  them 
with  "Apaches"  and  "Tangos"  at  their  favorite  cabaret;  her 
they  paid  with  money,  Daisy  with  suppers,  taxicabs  and  wine. 
A  morning  telephone  call  to  Daisy  insured  a  satisfactory  crew 
of  female  companions  at  the  supper-table.  Was  a  pretty 
face  noticed  in  the  chorus,  Daisy  was  'phoned  to  to  arrange 
for  the  pretty  face's  presence  at  a  private  supper-party. 
There  was  hardly  a  male  member  of  the  "sporty  set"  that 
Daisy  could  not  address  by  the  same  familiar  nicknames  they 
bore  among  their  polo-playing  confrerie.  In  return  she  was 
"good  old  Daisy,"  or  "old  girl."  She  had  not  resented  the 
"old"  at  first;  such  people  called  everybody  'old"  man,  "old" 
boy,  "old  top."  But  one  night  it  suddenly  struck  her  with  a 
sinister  significance. 

A  splendid  supper  had  been  served  in  a  Louis  XIV  room. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  127 

"Baby"  Webster  was  being  wooed  ardently  by  a  young  Eng- 
lish viscount;  Jean  Hortense  was  looking  soulfully  into  the 
eyes  of  a  millionaire's  sole  heir;  Letty  Lee  was  playing  her 
game  with  a  wealthy  young  Jew,  pretending  to  be  impressed 
by  his  masterful  ways.  Every  possible  corner  of  the  large, 
dimly  lit  room  was  in  service  for  couples  playing  the  eternal 
game;  while  she,  Daisy  Deliria,  most  beautiful  and  celebrated 
of  all,  sat  at  the  table  attentionless.  Dozing  nearby  was  the 
cynical  host,  a  wealthy  idler  who  gave  such  suppers  auto- 
matically, since  it  was  part  of  the  life  he  had  selected  in 
youth  and  which  had  so  sapped  his  energies  that  he  was  unable 
to  change  it  in  age,  though  it  now  bored  him  intensely. 

"Looks  like  we're  out  of  it,  old  girl,"  he  said,  awaking  at 
some  burst  of  merriment  wilder  than  usual.  He  spoke  solely 
from  politeness,  for  silences  were  not  etiquette  at  gay  supper- 
parties:  somebody  might  start  thinking. 

She  winced. 

"D'you  remember  that  supper  I  gave  at  Curate's  five  years 
ago?"  he  went  on  drowsily.  "How  I  chased  you  into  a 
corner  and  wouldn't  let  you  out  until  you  kissed  me?" 

"I  didn't,  though,"  she  said  with  spirit. 

"We  didn't  understand  you  then,  Daisy,"  said  he,  and 
dozed  again,  leaving  Daisy  to  ponder  over  his  explanation. 

They  understood  her  now.  It  was  a  bold  man  who  would 
make  overtures  to  the  man-scorning  Deliria,  who  had  learned 
to  jest  at  impropriety  of  speech  and  to  make  the  speaker 
feel  ridiculous;  and  she  was  beginning  to  understand  what 
we  have  stated:  that  the  marrying  men,  having  formed  too 
bacchanalian  a  view  of  her  character,  sought  "squabs,"  "chick- 
ens," if  they  wanted  theatrical  brides,  not  the  girl  whose 
picture  a  thousand  barbers  had  cut  from  their  illustrated 
weekly  and  used  as  a  mural  decoration,  whose  fleshinged 
limbs  were  as  familiar  as  her  face  to  readers  of  ten-cent 
magazines. 


128  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

I 

Daisy's  conduct  from  the  night  just  chronicled  was  due 

to  an  instinctive  knowledge  that  she  needed  new  attractions. 
Had  she  applied  cold  reason  to  instinct,  the  tactics  would 
have  been  just  as  new  but  of  a  different  sort;  reasoning,  at 
this  point,  might  have  saved  Daisy  from  her  ruin.  The  truth 
was  that,  having  discounted  her  physical  lure,  she  must  en- 
deavor to  attract  by  mentality.  To  de  this,  she  must  train 
her  mind  as  Alice  had  advised  years  since. 

But  Daisy  was  only  instinctive.  And  instinct,  long  subjected 
to  false  brakes,  misled  her.  Realizing  her  need,  she  reached 
swiftly  for  what  was  near  to  hand.  She  began  to  pose  as 
a  wit. 

The  kind  of  wit  Daisy  affected  was  popular  in  England 
when  all  shallowpates  went  about,  as  somebody  says,  with 
one  deadly  epigram,  waiting  for  some  indecency  in  the  con- 
versation to  plant  it,  as  bees  conserve  their  one  deadly  sting; 
an  imitation  of  the  moribund  "Yellow  Book"  formula,  without 
its  "form."  One  has  only  to  be  alert  to  be  expert  at  such 
wit;  to  pounce  upon  and  distort  any  unintentional  ambiguity 
in  careless  conversation.  Daisy  congratulated  herself  when 
she  found  men  again  paid  her  conversational  attention. 
Young  fellows  meeting  her  for  the  first  time  grinned  in  ex- 
pectancy and  told  her  they  had  heard  of  her  cleverness.  In 
the  struggle  to  maintain  this  reputation,  she  soon  was  guilty 
of  verbal  indiscretions  that  shocked  her.  But  she  could  not 
go  back.  Soon  she  was  reading  privately  printed  books,  porno- 
graphic verse.  She  wrote  some  of  the  latter  herself,  to  recite 
at  parties;  and  some  stray  bits  were  printed  by  a  Cayenne- 
Tabasco  weekly.  Her  reputation  rose — and  fell. 

That  is,  her  personal  attraction  fell.  Even  boys  did  not 
make  offers  of  marriage  now;  she  was  no  longer  forced  to 
frown  coldly  upon  their  elders  for  the  habit  of  suggesting 
that  they  be  her  bankers.  Once  they  heard  her  ripostes  and 
read  her  verse,  even  cynical  roues  decided  they  wanted  minds 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  129 

more  innocent  to  move  them  to  affection.  Men  do  not  desire 
women  to  tell  smoking-room  stories;  at  their  worst,  they  only 
wish  them  to  listen.  Nor,  in  spite  of  their  oft  expressed 
liking  for  "jolly  good  fellows,"  do  they  like  to  see  women 
drink.  A  glass  br  two  of  champagne,  a  cocktail  before  din- 
ner, a  liqueur  after,  those  they  permit;  but  when  a  woman 
refills  her  glass  greedily,  men  mentally  shrug  their  shoulders. 

But  the  habit  had  grown  upon  Daisy,  particularly  since 
the  beginning  of  her  reputation  as  a  wit.  To  have  a  continual 
overflow  of  sparkling  conversation  (even  when  the  sparkle 
is  brummagem)  necessitates  either  exciting  circumstances  or, 
else,  stimulants.  The  circumstances,  alas,  had  been  lacking 
long  since  for  Daisy. 

At  this  stage  her  former  admirers  telephoned  her  less 
frequently. 

She  began  to  have  unengaged  evenings.  They  frightened 
her.  She  was  accustomed  to  having  her  waning  self-confi- 
dence restored  by  obsequious  people:  chauffeurs  who  bowed 
and  scraped,  knowing  she  would  make  it  a  point  with  her 
escorts  to  see  they  were  "kept" ;  head- waiters  who  greeted  her 
as  royalty,  since  she  was  the  sort  of  person  who  always  called 
for  "special"  things  which  would  necessitate  their  consulta- 
tion and  remuneration;  cloak-room  attendants  who  knew,  if 
they  flattered  her  by  inferring  that  she  was  too  famous  to 
need  a  check  to  identify  her  wraps,  that  she  would  ask  her 
friends  to  give  them  some  lagnappe  worth  while.  If  she  went 
merely  to  powder  her  nose,  she  carried  a  dollar  donation, 
since  the  sort  of  men  with  which  she  consorted  did  not  feel 
comfortable  handing  such  a  girl  silver.  And  the  orchestra 
leader  never  played  her  favorite  airs  until  she  requested  it; 
for  her  request  complied  with  meant  that  somebody  would 
toss  him  something  more  than  the  ordinary  bill.  All  these 
people,  secure  in  the  largesse  her  attendance  involved,  allowed 
her,  unrebuked,  the  airs  of  a  grand  duchess. 


130  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

One  restaurant  after  another,  and  so  on  until  morning; 
and  every  night  for  years:  that  was  her  life.  She  could  not 
give  it  up.  And  as  it  was  a  life  that  must  be  lived  at  some- 
body's expense,  she  condescended  to  accompany  declasse 
choristers  and  their  college  boys. 

Soon  she  was  seeing  more  students  and  less  and  less  of 
her  former  friends  of  the  Racquet  and  University  clubs; 
finally,  students  only.  Yale  and  Princeton  Saturday  nighters, 
most  of  whom  had  possessed  "den"  pictures  of  her  for  years, 
spread  the  glad  news  of  finally  achieving  a  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  their  divinity.  Wholesale  introductions  followed. 
Except  that  few  of  these  boys  had  allowances  that  permitted 
them  to  be  regular  patrons  of  the  all-night  restaurants  where 
champagne  was  the  customary  order,  it  was  like  a  renewal  of 
her  pristine  triumphs.  As  for  champagne,  Daisy's  desire  had 
never  been  for  its  taste  but  for  its  effect;  therefore  less  ex- 
pensive liquors  served  as  well — in  fact,  better,  for  she  could 
purchase  them  herself,  facing  the  necessity  which  grew  more 
frequent  of  mornings. 


IV 

WHEN  the  old  Music  Hall  fell  behind  the  times  and  finally 
closed,  Daisy  remained  without  a  situation  for  many  months. 
Managers,  devoid  of  "old  times"  sentiment,  appraised  her 
thickening  figure  and  threatened  double  chin  at  much  less 
than  those  who  had  formerly  profited  through  her.  Even 
then  she  did  not  see  the  writing  on  the  wall,  though  her 
college-boy  friends  were  going  the  way  the  Racquet  Club  men 
had  gone — but  for  a  different  reason.  Such  boys  like  to  sit 
in  front  row  seats  and  carry  on  pantomime  conversations 
with  their  friends  while  on  the  stage,  advertising  to  those 
seated  nearby  that  they  are  sad  young  dogs ;  later,  at  the  stage 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  131 

door,  to  bear  off  casually  these  comedy  queens  before  the 
longing  eyes  of  gallery  boys  and  rival  collegians.  They  did 
not  relish  exchanging  these  triumphs  for  an  expensive  and 
unadvertised  taxicab  trip  to  a  dingy  Harlem  apartment-house 
section.  Standing  under  a  gasolier  covered  with  tissue  paper, 
surrounded  by  other  such  supposed  improvements,  in  a  Harlem 
home  of  tasteless  respectability,  her  caller  was  apt  to  note 
that  her  eyes  and  complexion  were  losing  their  brilliancy  and 
that  her  costume  did  not  heighten  any  remaining  charms. 
Daisy  had  never  been  careful  of  her  clothes — beauties  do  not 
feel  the  necessity;  and  she  had  never  had  much  money  to 
spend  on  them,  since  her  wages  largely  supported  her  mother's 
home. 

Under  such  circumstances,  such  an  escort  was  apt  to  resent 
expensive  orders  of  food  or  drink,  the  results  not  justifying 
the  expenditure;  and  if  he  submitted  to  her  requisitioning  a 
taxi  when  they  might  have  walked  two  or  three  blocks  in 
less  time,  it  was  only  once  and  that  sullenly.  As  for  having 
taxis  "kept,"  that  day  was  past.  When  she  suggested  it,  she 
received  cold  stares  of  dislike. 

Out  of  work  three  months,  she  was  reduced  to  telephoning 
instead  of  being  telephoned;  after  four  months,  she  was 
forced  to  hunt  up  girl  friends  and  go  to  Curate's  for  tea  in 
the  hope  of  being  able  to  entrap  former  acquaintances  into 
dinner  and  supper  invitations,  a  habit  soon  detected  by  the 
wary  Broadway  birds  who  kept  out  of  gunshot  after  a  few 
of  their  number  had  been  bagged. 

"Daisy  Deliria's  trying  to  catch  your  eye,  Ralph,"  said  one 
"leading  man"  to  another,  both  her  ardent  admirers  in  days 
gone  by. 

"Thanks  for  the  warning,"  said  Ralph,  incontinently  de- 
parting. The  other  leading  man,  as  yet  without  Ralph's  ex- 
perience, served  as  his  substitute ;  and  when  later  he  dismissed 


132  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

a  taxicab  at  Daisy's  home,  he  borrowed  carfare  from  the 
chauffeur  to  ride  back  to  the  club  on  the  "L." 

In  her  happier  days,  Ralph's  friend  would  have  whistled 
happily  on  his  "L"-ward  journey  and  boasted  at  the  club  of 
having  been  allowed  to  go  broke  in  Daisy  Deliria's  service. 

In  face  of  such  attitudes,  Daisy  was  visited  by  the  sub- 
conscious realization  that  employment  was  necessary  to  make 
new  friends  or  even  retain  old  ones.  After  fruitlessly  making 
many  rounds,  she  found  one  of  her  former  stage-managers 
with  an  "angel"  and  careless  of  expense. 

"But  I  can't  afford  to  pay  you  your  salary  unless  you  do  a 
part,  Daisy,"  he  said.  "The  show-girl's  day  is  over.  I  only 
use  ten,  and  I  can  get  all  I  want  for  eighteen  per.  We've 
done  everything  that  can  be  done  with  lineless  languid  ladies. 
Can  you  play  a  part?" 

"Sure,"  said  Daisy  desperately. 

But  Daisy  couldn't.  Bob  Ledyard  gave  her  his  patient 
best  and  much  time  that  he  could  ill  afford  to  spare  from 
his  dancing  girls.  Finally,  in  despair,  he  called  upon  the 
librettist  and  commanded  him  to  write  a  small  part  into  a 
certain  situation. 

"You'll  have  to  take  it,  Daisy,"  said  Bob  later  when  he 
thrust  the  supererogatory  few  lines  into  her  hand. 

"Thirty  dollars  a  week?"  she  sobbed  unbelievingly. 

"If  it  was  anybody  but  you  it  would  be  the  raspberry," 
said  Bob,  trying  to  be  kind.  "Can't  you  buck  up,  Daisy? 
You're  losing  your  looks  and  your  figure.  Why  don't  you 
try  to  learn  singing  or  dancing?  If  you  will,  I'll  see  that  you 
get  your  old  salary  in  my  next  show." 

And,  after  a  pause,  for  he  realized  he  had  asked  an  im- 
possibility of  such  as  the  Deliria  temperament : 

"Why  don't  you  get  married,  girlie?  It's  the  best  thing 
for  you,  really." 

Her  sobbing  made  him  uncomfortable.    He  recalled  the  old 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  133 

Music  Hall  days  when  he  was  a  young  producer  and  Daisy 
was  a  queen ;  remembered  her  kindness  to  less  fortunate  girls. 
"There,  there,"  he  said  hastily.  "I  put  on  ten  shows  a 
year,  Daisy.  I'll  always  see  there's  a  'bit'  for  you.  You 
won't  starve  anyway.  There,  there  .  .  ." 


LINLITHGOW  BRUCE  and  Alice  Ames  pushed  through  the 
crowd  at  the  theater,  hoping  for  a  taxicab.  Finding  none, 
as  they  feared  would  be  the  case  on  New  Year's  Eve,  they 
were  caught  in  the  Broadway  crush,  and,  after  Alice  had 
suffered  from  the  roughness  of  several  rowdy  revelers,  Bruce 
pushed  her  through  swinging  doors  into  one  of  those  second- 
class  restaurants  patronized  by  Brooklyn  burgesses  and  Har- 
lemites  on  the  rampage,  students  and  others  of  the  sort  only 
occasionally  bacchanalian. 

He  sent  word  that  the  head-waiter  should  somewhere  wedge 
in  an  extra  table.  Turning,  he  saw  Alice  standing  rigidly, 
staring  in  horrific  dismay. 

"Linny!  There's  Daisy  Deliria!"  Bruce  looked,  and 
nodded,  frowning. 

"She  has  done  for  herself,  hasn't  she  ?"  he  said. 

Daisy  was  seated  a  few  paces  from  the  door,  at  a  wind- 
swept table  she  would  have  scorned  in  days  when  head-waiters 
respected  her  male  companions.  Her  faded  charms  were 
evident:  the  swanlike  contour  of  throat  was  lost  in  a  double 
chin,  and  her  Cleopatra  eyes  seemed  stricken  with  amaurosis, 
they  were  so  dull  and  lifeless. 

"Linny,"  said  Alice  choking,  "let's  give  her  another  chance 
— take  her  to  Long  Island  to-morrow.  A  few  months  with 
us;  clean  country  air,  riding,  games — " 


134  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"Bother,  Alice,"  said  Bruce.  "She  could  have  had  all 
that.  She  likes  this  better." 

"She's  got  to  like  it  now.  But  she  doesn't,  now  that  she 
sees  the  finish  of  it,  I  know.  She's  learned  her  lesson — only 
nobody  cares  now." 

"You'll  have  a  tough  job,"  said  Bruce,  surveying  Daisy 
critically.  "However,  since  it's  winter  and  we're  not  likely 
to  have  many  visitors,  go  ahead  if  your  mind  is  set  on  it. 
But  it's  useless,  my  dear." 

Alice  crossed  swiftly  to  Daisy's  table.  The  body  that  had 
been  thin  was  "slender,"  the  formerly  peaked  face  "spirituelle" 
' — good  food  and  right  thinking  make  such  metamorphoses; 
and  the  gentian-blue  eyes  and  broad,  low  forehead  thus  pro- 
vided with  a  fitting  frame,  Alice  seemed  beautiful  and  a 
patrician;  an  effect  heightened  by  sable  coat,  Vienna  costume 
and  rope  of  pearls.  Alice  had  schooled  her  eyes  into  an 
almost  permanent  look  of  well-bred  toleration,  a  useful  sort 
of  look  for  public  purposes ;  but  the  schooling  was  forgotten ; 
her  face  expressing  only  a  quick  concern,  half  horror,  half 
pity.  Daisy,  who  had  seen  her  from  the  first,  though  pre- 
tending not  to,  read  the  look  aright,  and  her  eyes  seemed 
amaurotic  no  longer,  but  regained  a  flash  of  hatred  for  the 
girl  she  had  once  patronized.  She  tried  to  down  her  surging 
envy  with  scorn  for  the  method  by  which  the  costly  clothes 
had  been  procured,  attributing  in  error  all  her  former  chum's 
new  beauty  and  charm  to  them. 

There  were  six  boys  at  the  table,  none  of  age,  none  rich; 
six  boys  who  had  pooled  their  finances  to  purchase  the  costly 
wine  that  is  compulsory  on  New  Year's  Eve,  and  had  invited 
Daisy  because  she  was  the  only  girl  of  the  kind  they  knew 
who  did  not  have  an  engagement  at  the  eleventh  hour.  The 
boys  were  tipsy,  and  having  just  discovered  that  the  cooler 
yielded  no  further  refreshment,  were  rallying  Daicy  on  having 
infringed  upon  their  shares. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  135 

"Order  more,  then,"  she  said  loudly  for  Alice  to  hear  as 
she  came  up,  a  fatal  piece  of  bravado  that  became  a  boom- 
erang. 

"Order  more!  Who  d'you  think  you're  with?  Those 
millionaire  friends  of  yours  you're  always  telling  us  about? 
Wonder  they  didn't  send  one  of  their  ten-thousand-dollar  cars 
for  you  to-night!" 

Daisy  had  not  turned,  although  she  knew  Alice  was  there. 
It  maddened  her  that,  at  Alice's  appearance,  there  should 
have  come  into  the  eyes  of  these  college  boys  so  complete  a 
respect.  They  wore  their  Fifth  Avenue  look.  They  had  a 
different  sort  for  Broadway.  Reminding  them  as  she  did  of 
their  sisters'  friends  from  convent  and  boarding-school,  girls 
to  whom  they  would  some  day  be  engaged,  the  appearance  of 
Alice  sobered  them  like  cold  water. 

The  ashes  of  life  .were  in  Daisy's  mouth,  her  wine  of 
Dead  Sea  fruit.  Was  it  for  this  she  had  kept  "straight," 
that  a  smug  fraud  might  gain  more  respect  than  she?  No, 
swore  Daisy,  with  a  pious  oath ;  she  had  paid  with  poverty 
for  respect  and  respect  she  would  have;  no  dressed-up  minx 
should  rob  her  of  that  for  which  she  had  sacrificed  everything. 

She  contained  herself  grimly  while  Alice  spoke. 

"Daisy,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again.  Come  home  with 
us,  won't  you,  dear?  I've  so  much  to  tell  you.  It's  been 
years  .  .  .  We're  at  the  Ritz  to-night,  but  to-morrow  we  go 
back  to  Long  Island,  and  we'll  take  you  for  a  long,  long  rest. 
You  need  it,  poor  darling.  Come.  .  .  .  Why — Daisy !" 

Alice  stepped  back  like  one  suddenly  struck.  Indeed, 
Daisy's  forcible  removal  of  her  gentle  grasp  had  been  equiva- 
lent to  a  blow ;  and  now  she  faced  Alice  wild-eyed,  determined 
to  strip  off  the  impostor's  mask.  Precious  little  respect  they'd 
have  for  Miss  Alice  Ames  when  she  had  her  say !  And  then 
maybe  they'd  remember  what  was  due  a  "good"  woman. 

"None    of    your    impudence,    Alice    Ames!"    she    almost 


136  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

screamed.  "The  nerve  of  you — to  try  the  pitying  act  on 
me!  Me  that  could  have  had  'Linny'  Bruce  and  all  your 
sables  and  pearls,  too,  if  I  wanted  to  sink  to  your  level !  Yes, 
and  twenty  times  better  men  than  he  ever  was.  Better  save 
your  pity  for  somebody  that  needs  it — yourself.  The  world's 
got  a  thousand  times  the  respect  for  me  it's  got  for  you. 
These  boys  here  'ud  rather  be  seen  with  my  kind  of  a  girl  a 
thousand  times  better  than  your  kind — " 

Alice  had  found  time  to  regain  her  poise.  She  knew  that 
only  from  appearances  could  even  the  nearest  revelers  con- 
clude matters  were  awry  between  them.  In  the  pandemonium 
which  had  broken  loose  at  the  twelve  o'clock  whistle  before 
she  got  to  her  feet,  Daisy's  violences  were  like  whispers. 
Indeed,  Alice  had  recognized  the  words  of  abuse  only  by  the 
movements  of  Daisy's  lips. 

All  gentleness  had  flown  from  Alice;  she  desired  but  to 
retreat  in  good  order.  The  cool,  detached  poise,  the  amused 
tolerance,  that  was  now  habitual  with  her,  had  returned. 

"They'd  never  have  the  chance  to  associate  with  my  kind 
of  girl,  Daisy,"  she  said,  sweeping  her  with  scornful  eyes. 
Speechless  with  rage,  unable  adequately  to  retort,  Daisy  yet 
knew  that  she  must  efface  that  scorn.  She  reached  for  some- 
thing to  hurl  at  this  smiling  sinner;  but  her  hand  was  caught 
and  pinioned  by  a  waiter  captain,  who  having  noted  her  fiery 
look  when  she  rose,  had  moved  nearer  during  her  declamation. 

The  noise  was  still  too  general  for  any  but  those  two  to 
hear  what  he  said ;  but  Daisy  would  have  rather  all  the  others 
witnessed  her  humiliation  than  this  one  woman.  For  the 
waiter  captain,  after  appraising  the  sables,  the  costume  and 
the  pearls,  might  have  been  Alice's  own  personal  servant. 

"She  won't  try  anything  like  that  again,  madam,"  he  said, 
referring  to  Daisy,  whom  he  viewed  sternly.  "But,  if  you're 
a  bit  nervous  about  it,  I'll  make  her  leave  the  place  this 
instant." 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  137 

"A  thousand  times  as  much  respect,  Daisy?"  Alice  mur- 
mured, diabolically  gentle.  Immediately  she  was  sorry.  It 
was  like  striking  a  lame  beggar ;  for  at  last  Daisy  had  realized 
she  was  an  Esau;  that  the  price  of  her  birthright  was  only 
pottage.  Her  look,  as  she  sank  into  her  seat,  haunted  Alice 
for  many  nights. 

She  put  out  her  hands  as  a  mother  to  a  helpless,  naughty 
child. 

"Daisy  dear,  forgive  me.  I  didn't  mean  it.  Forgive  me. 
Please  come  with  me  to  Long  Island.  Please." 

But  Daisy  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"Better  leave  her,  madam,"  said  the  captain.  "I'll  look  out 
for  her  if  she's  a  friend  of  yours." 

"But  don't  you  know  her,  waiter,  know  who  she  is?" 
gasped  Alice.  Surely  the  man  would  not  speak  so  if  he  knew. 

He  nodded.  "Daisy  Deliria  ?  Oh,  yes,  madam.  For  years. 
We  see  them  come  and  go,  we  waiters.  Once" — he  shrugged 
his  shoulders — "I  know.  It's  a  hard  thing  to  say,  but  we'd 
rather  she  wouldn't  come  here.  She  makes  more  complaints 
of  service  and  gives  more  trouble  for  the  small  money  that's 
spent  than  any  fifty  ...  Have  your  table  ready  in  a  moment, 
sir,"  he  said  to  Bruce  as  he  reached  him. 

"Lynn!"  said  Alice  faintly. 

"Get  a  taxi,  no  matter  who  ordered  it  first,"  said  Lin- 
lithgow  Bruce,  alarmed  at  her  look.  "Here!" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  captain. 


VI 

DAISY  had  not  opened  her  eyes  when  Alice  and  Bruce  de- 
parted. The  collegian  who  had  spoken  so  rudely  of  her 
millionaire  friends'  absence  now  thrust  a  toy  megaphone  at 
her  and  observed  admiringly  that  if  she  could  persuade  her 


138  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

friend  to  join  them  they  could  endeavor  to  raise  the  price 
of  another  bottle;  a  further  tribute  to  Alice  that  was  a  twist 
of  the  knife  already  in  Daisy's  vitals.  Her  silence  annoyed 
her  interlocutor,  who  with  the  others  plotted  some  deviltry  to 
cure  her  of  her  "sulks,"  a  deviltry  that  might  have  eventuated 
but  for  the  results  produced  by  Daisy's  second  caller. 

This  one,  a  man,  an  insufferable  toady  and  cad,  who  had 
annoyed  every  celebrity  on  the  Nightless  Lane  by  taking  his 
given  name  in  vain  on  provokingly  brief  acquaintance,  came 
up  as  the  din  began  to  die  down.  It  was  his  aim  in  life  to 
pretend  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  all  well-known  people, 
and,  to  carry  this  off  successfully,  collected  gossip  as  Wall 
Street  men  collect  money.  Once  he  had  boasted  to  others 
that  he  knew  Daisy  Deliria.  Now  he  seldom  troubled  to  speak 
to  her;  she  was  no  longer  worth  his  while.  Daisy  hardly  re- 
membered him. 

"Was  that  Alice  Bruce  I  saw  standing  at  your  table  ?" 

She  opened  eyes  that  seemed  again  lifeless.  "Who?"  she 
asked  dully. 

'.'Alice  Bruce.  Funny  her  being  here — just  dropped  in  my- 
self, making  the  rounds.  Canary's  or  Monico's  more  her  style. 
Still,  people  do  go  everywhere  New  Year's  Eve,  don't  they? 
Like  me,  for  instance,  dropping  in — " 

"Alice  who?" 

"Didn't  know  she'd  married  Bruce?  Eho,  yaas — years 
ago.  Somebody  left  her  money  and  she  went  back  to  school. 
Bruce  likes  to  do  weird  things,  and  they  say  she  met  him 
through  some — what-d'you-call-it — sociological  society." 

The  gossip  winked;  it  was  the  sort  of  wink  that  caused 
self-respecting  men  to  flee  at  his  approach. 

"Although  they  do  say  that  money  story  is  the  bunk,  and 
that  he  took  her  out  of  the  old  Music  Hall  himself.  Not 
that  7  know.  Clever  girl,  anyway ;  not  a  word  about  her  stage 
career  in  the  papers  or  anything.  Even  went  to  her  home 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  139 

town  to  get  married  .  .  .  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  the 
woman  ?" 

Daisy  had  fainted. 


VII 

BOB  LEDYARD  always  keeps  his  word.  There  is  only  one 
Bob,  and  managers  expect  a  great  man  to  have  some  idiosyn- 
crasies. So  Daisy  has  settled  down  to  a  steady  minimum 
wage  for  playing  "bits,"  although  there  is  a  movement  on 
foot  to  make  her  a  wardrobe  woman  next  season.  For  she 
has  lost  her  figure,  and  her  voice  is  so  hoarse  that  the  few 
words  she  has  to  speak  cannot  be  identified  by  auditors  farther 
back  than  the  fourth  row — not  that  the  words  entrusted  to 
her  ever  matter  very  much;  Bob  doesn't  let  sentiment  spoil 
plays.  Certain  obscure  publications  sometimes  pay  her  fifteen 
cents  a  line  for  her  verses  or  five  or  ten  dollars  for  her  short 
stories.  She  has  but  a  single  string  to  her  lyre;  her  song  is 
always  of  the  brutal  men  who  "have  no  use  for  respectable 
girls,"  which,  she  explains,  is  why  she  is  not  riding  in  motor 
cars.  But  she  manages  to  even  respectability's  score  to  her 
own  satisfaction  by  having  those  other  girls  of  her  stories  die 
in  the  midst  of  guilty  splendor,  or,  if  she  lets  them  live,  it  is 
only  that  they  may  be  afflicted  with  that  sort  of  bathetic 
remorse  once  exemplified  when  a  certain  class  of  songs  became 
popular  by  featuring  birds  in  gilded  cages  and  banquets  in 
misery  halls.  You  can  see  her  any  day  at  Curate's,  paying  for 
her  own  tea  (with  soda).  If  you  should  meet  her,  you  will  not 
escape  her  plaint: 

".  .  .  No  use  for  respectable  girls  .  .  .  more  lemon, 
waiter." 

It  is  a  curious  word — respectability.  Perhaps  she  speaks 
truly.  But  she  alternates  "respectable"  with  "good,"  evidently 


140  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

under  the  impression  that  they  are  synonyms.  The  phrase 
"chemically  pure"  was  invented  for  such  as  Daisy.  Goodness, 
or  to  be  less  vague,  virtue,  is,  as  Bruce  once  told  her,  in  the 
mind.  And  a  woman  who  has  it  there  does  not  find  pleasure 
in  such  a  life  as  Daisy  has  led. 

It  was  not  the  life  of  a  "good"  girl,  only  that  of  one  selfish 
and  afraid.  She  wanted  everything  in  exchange  for  nothing; 
and  such  people  generally  get  nothing  in  exchange  for  every- 
thing. 


III.  WHEN  THE  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN  PLAYED 
RAG-TIME 

ADMITTEDLY,  Gorsuch  is  the  great  American  novelist. 
But  did  he  become  so  by  starving  in  a  garret  for 
the  better  part  of  his  younger  days?    No.     Had  he 
been  the  "master  of  his  fate,  the  captain  of  his  soul,"  he  would, 
probably,  be  writing  hack  musical  comedies  with  one  hand 
and  gloomy  imitations  of  Ibsen  with  the  other. 

A  genealogical  tree  of  Gorsuch's  earlier  series  of  achieve- 
ments reads  something  like  this: 

From  Connie  Allerton  (nee  Ogg),  and  Aylwin  Allerton,  was  de- 
scended "The  Devonshire  Maid."  From  her  descended  Ida  Dare,  who 
was  the  ancestress  of  "When  the  Piper  of  Hamelin  Played  Rag-time" 
and  of  Darrell  Darcy.  And  from  these  was  descended  "Love's  Un- 
derstudy," the  first  Gorsuch  novel. 

Perplexing?  Not  when  you  have  heard  the  story.  Gor- 
such, who  has  the  gift  of  analysis,  tracked  it  to  its  lair,  and 
told  it  one  night,  to  prove  to  a  critic  drunken  on  Joseph 
Conrad,  that  God  was  a  better  stage-manager  of  the  Universal 
Drama  than  young  critics  allow. 

"The  Universe  is  purposeless,"  said  the  young  critic,  "un- 
necessarily cruel,  harsh,  pitiless.  Conrad  has  the  right  idea — " 

"You  mean  Barnum,"  suggested  Gorsuch,  quoting  a  less 
searching  mind. 

"  'Cruel  and  absurd  contradictions,'  Conrad  says.  .  .  . 
'Pity,  hope,  charity,  even  reason  perish.  ...  Its  object  is 
purely  spectacular.'  That's  what  Conrad  says." 

141 


142  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"The  great  fault  with  these  modern  romantics  is  that  they 
try  to  measure  God  with  a  tape-measure,"  said  Gorsuch,  yawn- 
ing. "They  deal  in  details  and  call  them  facts,  in  scenes  and 
call  them  plays;  worst  of  all  they  fail  to  see  that  a  man  does 
not  stand  alone,  that  he  is  only  an  actor  in  some  little  comedy 
or  tragedy;  and  each  of  these  is  a  scene  in  a  perfectly  con- 
structed Universal  Drama — which,  following  all  known  rules 
of  synthesis,  should  be  an  act  of  the  great  Solar  System  play, 
which  will  be  thoroughly  explained  in  a  program  footnote  so 
that  you  critics  will  not  be  too  harsh  at  its  final  enactment 
on  Judgment  Day.  Meanwhile,  the  trouble  with  most  people 
is  that  they  can't  even  see  the  construction  of  the  primary 
scenes." 

"Don't  understand,"  said  the  Conrad  enthusiast  sulkily. 

"Well — "  Gorsuch  looked  about  him,  sleepily,  for  an  ex- 
ample. "See  here :  a  highly  moral  President,  stainless  private 
character  but  easily  fooled  by  rich  rascals,  especially  if  they 
were  vestrymen,  is  hoaxed  into  helping  said  rascals  by  de- 
claring war  with  small  country  for  commercial  reasons ;  many 
lives  are  lost.  Elected  second  time;  on  verge  of  doing  other 
disastrous  things  for  said  rascals — quite  honestly  and  unknow- 
ingly. Anarchist  shoots  him.  Wail  goes  up  from  other  honest 
people  about  injustice  of  Creator. 

"Meanwhile,  a  clever,  honest  man  is  railroaded  to  the 
Vice-Presidency,  his  claws  cut  so  as  not  to  hurt  said  rascals. 
Anarchist  thus  inadvertently  foils  said  rascals  and  puts  into 
power  clever  honest  man  who  begins  fighting  and  has  never 
stopped.  If  Anarchist  had  not  shot  honest,  unknowing  Presi- 
dent, the  rich  rascals'  grip  on  the  country  would  have  been 
unbreakable.  As  it  is,  people's  eyes  are  opened;  the  rich 
rascals  are  defeated:  one  honest  man  is  sacrificed  to  save 
millions.  Fairly  well-constructed  piece  of  drama — what? 
Yet  often  used  to  show  Divine  lack  of  pity,  hope,  charity, 
and  reason.  Think  it  over.  Good-night." 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  143 

"But,"  objected  the  pessimist,  albeit  shakily.  Gorsuch 
sighed.  "Take  my  own  case.  Stupid  little  woman  can't  sing, 
dance  or  act — Connie  Allerton — English.  Another  one,  ditto 
— Ida  Dare — American.  Yet  if  both  hadn't  become  famous, 
I'd  never  have  met  my  wife,  and  if  I  hadn't,  I  couldn't  have 
afforded  to  quit  writing  hack  stuff  and  get  down  to  realities. 
That's  another  well-constructed  affair — " 

"Let's  hear  it,"  said  the  disciple  of  Conrad  in  the  tone  of 
one  willing  to  be  convinced. 

"It's  already  been  told,  all  in  one  sentence,"  protested  Gor- 
such. "Whatever  exists  has  been  evil  and  will  be  good,  or 
has  been  good  and  will  be  evil." 

It  would  have  been  more  interesting  to  hear  the  story  in 
his  own  words.  However,  the  facts  are  fairly  well  known  and 
are  as  follows: 

Because  Aylwin  Allerton  was  the  librettist  of  the  Frivolity 
Theater,  his  chorus-girl  bride  was  given  a  part;  and  he  wor- 
ried out  for  her  a  song  that  needed  no  voice  to  carry  it.  You 
know  the  sort:  something  quite  insultingly  suggestive,  but 
which  when  sung  "innocently"  by  a  wide-eyed  ingenue,  elicits 
shrieks  from  cynics  aged  sixteen  or  sixty.  It  made  Connie 
celebrated;  and,  as  her  librettist-husband  followed  it  with 
equally  popular  songs  for  her,  she  was  soon  sufficient  of  an 
advertising  asset  to  have  a  piece  especially  written  to  suit  her 
small  capabilities — "The  Devonshire  Maid."  It  was  excep- 
tionally clever  as  musical  shows  go :  and  the  American  rights 
were  purchased  by  Harlan  K.  Harney. 

Having  been  written  to  feature  "innocence,"  demureness, 
and  simplicity,  the  play  needed  those  qualities  in  its  American 
protagonist,  else  the  story,  which  told  of  unsophisticated 
Amaryllis  walking  blindfolded  into  the  "temptations  of  a  great 
city,"  became  shrieking  farce.  Harlan  K.  Harney  tried  one 
or  another  of  all  the  celebrated  American  comedy  queens. 


144  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Their  voices  (their  principal  asset)  were  not  particularly  nec- 
essary to  the  part  and  their  carefully-cultivated  shrugging 
Parisienne,  nasal  New  York,  or  lackadaisical  London  per- 
sonalities were  handicaps;  so  he  dismissed  them,  knowing 
his  play  would  fail  if  his  Devonshire  Maid  showed  no  sign 
of  being  either  a  maiden,  or — while  he  did  not  insist  on  Devon 
— from  any  'shire  at  all. 

Then,  accidentally,  he  saw  Ida  Dare:  "The  Lord  had  his 
arm  around  her,  sure,"  remarked  her  agent  later  when  he 
pondered  upon  it.  Mr.  Harney  had  dropped  into  a  vaudeville 
theater  to  pick  up  the  manager  there  for  the  premiere  of  a 
new  play  over  the  way.  Had  he  visited  such  a  place  for 
amusement,  Mr.  Harney  would  have  come  half  an  hour  later, 
avoiding  the  opening  acts — always  the  lowest  priced  and  gen- 
erally the  worst.  Miss  Ida  Dare,  one  of  these,  was  giving  a 
stereotyped  "imitation"  when  Harney  entered. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  removed  her  comedic  make-up, 
and  came  out  for  her  last  number,  in  a  simple  frock  of  white 
lawn,  her  hair  in  two  thick  ropes,  that  Harney  perceived  she 
had  a  certain  sort  of  attractiveness,  the  grace  of  youth.  Her 
singing  was  undistinguished,  but  in  the  dance  that  followed, 
she  had  the  cunning  to  distract  attention  from  her  none  too 
nimble  feet  by  constant  use  of  her  hands,  which  she  waved 
and  twisted  with  good  effect.  Her  very  amateurishness,  taken 
with  her  pretty  face  and  youthful  figure,  was  precisely  what 
he  wanted  for  his  unsophisticated  Devonshire  Maid.  The 
part  was  "actor-proof"  if  Connie  Allerton  had  succeeded  in  it, 
and  Ida  Dare  had  the  same  sort  of  apparent  innocence  and 
simplicity. 

So  Ida  was  given  special  dancing  instruction,  and,  when 
the  opening  night  came,  Mr.  Harney's  astuteness  was  re- 
warded. The  morning  after  the  New  York  premiere,  the 
daily  critics  wrote  of  Ida  Dare  as  though  she  had  personally 
written  the  lines,  composed  the  music,  staged  the  piece,  and 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  145 

managed  the  "lights."  They  seemed  to  forget  "The  Devon- 
shire Maid"  had  been  running  in  London  for  two  years.  Ida 
shared  their  lack  of  memory. 

Harlan  K.  Harney  bore  with  her  one  and  one-half  troubled 
seasons,  soothed  by  the  extraordinarily  large  receipts  of  "The 
Devonshire  Maid."  He  had,  out  of  sheer  kindness,  advanced 
her  salary  when  business  began  to  be  big,  had  even  complied 
with  her  request  that  she  be  "featured," — i.  e.,  that  on  pro- 
grams and  bill-boards  her  name  be  printed  in  type  only  slightly 
smaller  than  the  name  of  the  play;  and  when  she  demanded 
(she  no  longer  "requested")  a  second  increase  in  salary  prior 
to  leaving  New  York,  he  granted  that,  too.  But  to  "star"  her 
he  refused;  so  when  the  next  season  came  and  she  accepted 
a  larger  offer  from  a  smaller  rival  he,  instead  of  suing  the 
ungrateful  young  contract-breaker,  smiled  gratefully. 

"Just  as  soon  as  I  took  her  out  of  'The  Maid' — where  her 
appearance  was  worth  something — I'd  have  been  cheating  my- 
self paying  her  more  than  a  hundred  a  week,"  he  said.  "I'd 
have  had  to  get  another  show  like  that  if  she  was  going  to 
be  worth  her  salary,  and  that's  like  asking  a  biscuit  to  grow 
into  a  barrel  of  flour." 

Gorsuch,  then  acting  as  Mandelbaum's  librettist,  proved  he 
was  right;  and  here  is  where  Miss  Darrell  Darcy  comes  in. 

"No,  Mr.  I-forget-your-name,  really  I  never  sing  synco- 
pated music — not  under  any  circumstances.  It's  quite  vulgar 
— quite.  And  Mr.  Labouchere,  you  must  change  this  second 
verse — really.  You  have  me  say  here:  'My  heart  is  cold,  my 
kisses  ice.'  Now  my  heart  is  not  cold.  I  couldn't  put  any 
feeling  into  that,  because  it's  not  me." 

"No,  it's  only  the  part,"  agreed  Gorsuch  pleasantly.  "You 
see  we  were  laboring  under  the  error  that  you  were  an  actress, 
Miss —  what  is  your  name  again,  please?" 

Ida  Dare's  ears  grew  red,  especially  as  Labouchere  and 


146  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Hertz  chuckled:  then,  pale  with  wrath,  she  picked  up  her 
parasol,  and,  with  that  dramatic  dignity  of  exit  which  the 
actress  early  learns,  crossed  the  huge  stage  of  the  York 
Theater,  disappearing  by  the  stage-door. 

"The  little  upstart,"  said  Gorsuch,  breathing  heavily.  "I 
hope  to  God  she  hands  in  her  resignation."  Composer  and 
lyricist  echoed  his  wish  with  even  more  feeling  and  consider- 
able profanity.  "I'm  glad  you  handed  it  to  her,  Laurie,"  said 
Hal  Hertz,  the  composer.  "  'I  never  sing  syncopated  mu-sic,'  " 
he  sang  in  savage  mimicry,  "  'quite  vul-gah !'  Forgets  my 
name,  does  she?  And  three  years  ago  she  sat  outside  my 
office  for  hours,  tears  in  her  eyes,  begging  me  to  recommend 
her  to  Bob  for  a  chorus- job — and  me,  soft-hearted  fool,  doing 
it." 

The  great  Bob  Ledyard,  producer  for  Mandelbaum,  now 
hurried  from  the  other  side  of  the  stage  and  from  a  con- 
sultation with  the  costume-designer;  he  had  observed  the 
dignified  Dare  exit.  He  scolded  in  low  tones  but  without 
conviction,  for  Miss  Dare,  although  hardly  venturing  on  any 
superior  airs  with  one  who  had  trained  her  as  a  chorus-girl, 
had  irritated  him,  nevertheless,  by  insisting  on  certain  man- 
nerisms which  decreased  the  pace  of  the  show,  an  unfor- 
givable offense  in  Bob's  eyes. 

But,  since  Miss  Ida  Dare  had  begun  to  feel  at  home  stage- 
center,  she  hated  to  leave  it,  insisting  on  at  least  two  encores, 
led  by  ushers  and  encouraged  by  stage-manager's  tricks — 
also  on  taking  final  "bows,"  all  of  which  "slowed  up  the 
show";  and  while  Bob  concurred  for  peace  at  rehearsals,  he 
had  no  intention  of  allowing  them  at  performances. 

But  now  she  had  committed  the  unforgivable  sin.  She 
returned  with  Arthur  Mandelbaum,  her  face  triumphant. 
Bob's  became  proportionately  black;  and  now  he,  too,  pre- 
pared to  make  a  dignified  exit.  No  theatrical  production  is 
ever  brought  to  fruition  without  at  least  two  or  three  such. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  147 

Mandelbaum,  realizing,  deserted  Miss  Dare  and  ran  after 
Ledyard.  Any  rival  would  welcome  the  great  Bob  fifty  times 
as  heartily  as  ten  Ida  Dares. 

"No  use,  Art,"  said  Bob.  "She  should  have  come  to  me 
with  her  complaint.  When  any  whipper-snapper  ex-chorus- 
girl  starts  ignoring  the  producer,  it's  time  for  him  to  quit. 
You  can't  do  anything  without  discipline.  Send  last  week's 
salary  to  my  home  address.  I  make  you  a  present  of  to-day's 
work  and  yesterday's.  ...  No  use,  Art,  unless  you  fire  her. 
She's  no  wonder,  anyhow." 

Mandelbaum  wrung  his  hands,  beseeching  pity  for  a  poor 
manager  who  had  signed  an  iron-bound  contract  for  thirty 
weeks'  salary  out  of  a  forty  weeks'  season.  Then  he  ran  to 
Ida  Dare  and  demanded  that  she  tender  Mr.  Ledyard  an 
apology. 

"I  will,  if  that  man  over  there" — she  indicated  Gorsuch — 
"apologizes  to  me." 

"Oh,  I  apologize  for  her — I  mean  to  her,"  said  Gorsuch, 
surprising  everyone.  But  Labouchere  noted  that  his  eyes 
twinkled  maliciously.  No  sign  of  retaliation  was  given,  how- 
ever, all  that  day,  and  the  rehearsals  progressed  in  peace. 
However,  Gorsuch  nodded  once  or  twice  at  Miss  Dare,  and 
Labby  poked  Hertz  with  his  elbow. 

"She  thinks  rag-time  vulgar,  does  she?"  Gorsuch  had 
purred  twenty  times  that  afternoon,  and  when  the  trio  gathered 
in  Labouchere's  studio  just  across  from  the  theater  stage- 
entrance  he  repeated  it  again,  aloud.  "Play  that  'rag'  of  yours 
— Hal;  I've  got  a  good  title  for  it,  fine  effects  for  Bob — 
'When  the  Piper  of  Hamelin  Played  Rag-time.'  Remember 
Browning's  poem?  See  what  you  can  do,  Labby." 

Labouchere  began  hastily  to  scribble  a  lyric.  "Give  me 
that  second  line,  Hall."  "Tee-dum — tee — dum  dum  dumdum 


148  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

dumdum  dumdum  tee,"  played  Hertz  slowly,  and  so  continued 
for  half  an  hour  while  Gorsuch  sat  meditating. 

The  operetta  then  rehearsing,  in  which  Ida  Dare  was  play- 
ing a  principal  part,  would  burst  upon  New  York  as  an  adapta- 
tion of  a  Berlin  "success"  by  the  composer  of  a  highly 
profitable  piece,  the  tunes  from  which  had  recently  swept  the 
country.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  one  of  the  composer's 
early  failures,  and,  outside  the  opening  choruses  and  finales, 
little  of  his  music  would  be  used ;  as  for  the  book,  it  was  one 
of  those  domestic  dramas  the  Germans  love — "Corn  beef  and 
cabbage  set  to  music,"  Gorsuch  said :  so  book  and  music  must 
be  entirely  rewritten  at  rehearsals  by  Gorsuch,  Labouchere, 
and  Hertz — all  on  salary  to  Mandelbaum,  and  a  trio  like  no 
other  in  that  world:  well-educated  youngsters  whose  abilities 
were  far  in  advance  of  Broadway  musical  comedy,  and  who 
were  engaged  on  it  only  because  they  had  family  claims  that 
necessitated  larger  incomes  than  a  devotion  to  artistic  ideals 
would  bring  them;  Gorsuch  had  a  consumptive  father  in 
Arizona,  Labby  a  recently  widowed  mother  and  a  younger 
sister,  and  Hal  Hertz  one  brother  at  law  school,  another  study- 
ing medicine. 

"Pipe  where  I  stole  that  chorus?"  said  Hertz,  leaving 
Labouchere  to  polish  off  his  lyric,  and  dashing  out  a  spirited 
syncopated  melody.  "Get  it?  No?  Tschaikowsky,  of  course, 
and  here's  the  strain  of  Russian  folk-lore  music  that  he  took 
it  from.  The  verse  is  just  the  'Soldiers  Chorus'  from  'Faust.' 
See?  Only  a  change  of  tempo.  ...  It  ought  to  catch  on 
at  every  turkey-trot  and  tango  tea  a  week  after  we  open.  It'll 
make  some  money  for  us,  boys." 

"That's  what  I  thought  when  I  first  heard  you  play  it — 
for  Dare.  It'll  be  the  hit  of  the  piece,  and  she  don't  like 
rag-time,"  said  Gorsuch,  wickedly.  "D'you  understand?" 

"But  who'll  do  it?"  asked  Hertz,  puzzled.  "I  thought  we'd 
have  to  save  it  for  our  next  show.  It's  not  suited  to  any  of 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  149 

the  other  women — and  as  it's  a  woman's  song  and  Art  Mandel- 
baum  says  the  cast  is  too  expensive  already — " 

"Don't  you  bother  your  head  about  that,  my  boy,"  returned 
Gorsuch.  "Look  here.  I'm  going  to  teach  that  little  cat  a 
lesson.  She  can't  sing  for  shucks ;  her  dancing's  all  fake,  and 
all  she's  got  is  that  I'm-too-sweet-to-live  and  general  expression 
of  having  sucked  a  persimmon  so  she  could  say  'prunes'  and 
'prisms.'  I  intend  to  give  her  all  the  nonsensical  affectations 
to  say  that  she  thinks  are  pretty,  and  you  do  the  same,  Labby. 
What'll  happen  opening  night?  The  audience  will  think  it's 
a  comedy  part  and  roar  their  heads  off.  It  won't  hurt  the 
show :  it  needs  comedy.  Instead  of  a  sweet  young  miss,  she'll 
be  playing  an  affected  little  cat,  and  when  Bob  and  Mandel- 
baum  see  how  out-of-town  audiences  take  the  part,  they'll 
let  me  write  in  a  scene  from  'The  Taming  of  the  Shrew' 
instead  of  that  steal  from  'The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,' — farce 
instead  of  romance." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  snort  from  Labouchere.  "Can 
you  see  it  ?"  he  gasped.  Hertz  chuckled.  The  romantic  scene, 
a  moonlit  one  of  coarse  masculinity  kneeling  for  forgiveness 
from  chaste  femininity — Ida  Dare  playing  it  in  a  thrillingly 
romantic  voice,  enjoying  herself  hugely — was  one  of  the  few 
portions  of  the  original  libretto  remaining,  and  was  that  part 
of  it  which  had  tempted  Ida  to  break  her  contract  with 
Harney. 

"We  make  these  actors  and  actresses,"  Gorsuch  went  on. 
"Of  course,  there  are  Bernhardt  and  Forbes-Robertson,  and 
a  few  more,  and  some  others  with  wonderful  personalities 
or  voices.  But  ninety-five  times  out  of  a  hundred,  an  actor 
or  actress  is  simply  a  person  with  enough  conceit  to  believe 
everybody's  crazy  to  pay  money  to  see  them  strut  around  the 
stage.  We  do  the  rest.  If  the  part's  bad,  we're  rotten;  if 
the  part's  good,  they're  immense.  It's  the  part  that  counts — 
or  the  song.  And  that's  where  that  'rag'  of  yours  comes  in 


150  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Hal.  That  tune  would  make  anybody  well-known  in  a  night 
— anybody." 

"Who'll  sing  it?"  asked  Hertz,  again. 

"That's  the  point:  she  won't;  the  comedy  woman's  a 
Cockney;  and  it  would  be  out  of  place  for  the  grande  dame 
or  the  adventuress.  So,  just  to  prove  what  I  say,  and  to  make 
Mandelbaum  let  me  change  that  moonlight  piffle  to  comedy, 
we'll  cut  out  that  weak  dancing  number  that  goes  just  before 
it,  and  put  this  one  in.  It's  the  last  number  (except  that 
foolish  duet  Dare  does  with  the  Duke,  which  will  also  come 
out  late)  and  just  where  the  show  needs  a  'punch.'  And  the 
break's  so  natural,  too.  Have  Lady  Gwendolyn  come  strolling 
in  with  Lord  Archie.  'What  a  quaint  old  tower!  What  is 
it?'  Some  fool  comedy,  Archie  giving  all  sorts  of  nut  ex- 
planations. I'll  steal  some  of  that  ^'Connecticut  Yankee  in 
King  Arthur's  Court'  stuff — knights  riding  bicycles,  the  Romans 
playing  golf  and  drinking  highballs,  all  that:  it's  old,  but 
the  older  the  jokes  the  more  the  audiences  laugh  at  them. 
It  takes  a  hundred  years  or  so  for  the  public  to  understand 
a  good  joke  so  they  can  all  laugh  at  once.  Then  Lady  Gwen- 
dolyn says:  'I  don't  believe  you  know  what  you're  talking 
about' ;  enter  Gypsy  Girl;  Gwendolyn  asks  her  what  about  the 
tower.  'Why,  the  Pied  Piper's  Tower,'  says  the  girl.  'The 
Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin?'  asks  Gwendolyn.  'I  don't  believe 
that  story:  how  could  he  charm  rats  just  by  playing  music?' 
'Ah,  but  he  played  rag-time,  lady,'  says  the  girl,  and  goes  into 
the  number.  On  first  verse  the  dancing  ponies  as  rats ;  second 
yerse,  'medium'  as  street  children;  third  verse,  show-girls  and 
sextette  boys  as  Lords  and  Ladies  in  powdered  wigs,  etc. — 
all  turkey-trotting  after  Gypsy  Girl  while  she  plays  the  pipes. 
Get  it?" 

"Immense!"  said  Labouchere,  grinning.  "It'll  be  guaran- 
teed actor-proof.  See  what'll  happen,  Hal?" 

"Sure,"  said  Hertz,  when  Dare  comes  on  to  be  romantic, 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  151 

they'll  keep  on  applauding  for  The  Piper'  and  they'll  have 
to  take  the  moonlight  off — " 

"And,  finally,  Dare  and  the  Duke  will  have  to  begin  their 
scene  while  the  audience  is  still  shouting,  and  that'll  kill  any 
serious  stuff." 

"Which  is  what  makes  the  idea  so  durned  great,"  said 
Hertz,  playing  with  one  hand  and  writing  down  notes  with 
the  other;  then,  of  a  sudden,  he  ceased,  becoming  downcast: 

"Who's  to  sing  it  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"That's  the  point,"  said  Gorsuch.  "Just  to  prove  it's  us, 
not  the  performer,  we'll  pick  out  some  unknown  chorus  girl — 
the  prettiest  one  of  the  gypsy  type.  And  just  as  Dare  got  all 
the  press-notices  over  all  the  well-known  people  in  'The  Devon- 
shire Maid,'  so  this  little  girl,  with  one  song,  will  get  the  notices 
over  her." 

"But  will  she  stand  for  it?"  asked  Labouchere,  anxiously. 

Gorsuch  began  to  count  on  his  fingers:  "First,  she's  too 
conceited  to  realize  that  any  applause  for  a  chorus  girl  will 
break  up  her  scene — she  imagines  a  dead  hush  will  fall  on 
them  the  moment  she  deigns  to  show  herself.  Second,  Bob 
wants  one  big  rag-time  number  so  he  can  show  off  his  dancing- 
girls'  tricks,  and  he's  sore  on  Dare  anyway.  Third,  Mandel- 
baum  won't  dare  cut  out  the  hit  of  the  piece,  especially  after 
paying  for  the  expensive  costumes  of  that  number.  Bob  will 
O.  K.  them  as  if  Dare  were  to  do  the  song,  so  Mandy  won't 
kick  on  ordering  them.  Fourth,  when  Dare  refuses  the  song 
because  rag-time's  vulgar,  that  settles  it  and  settles  her.  To 
get  a  big,  fast  show,  Bob  will  rush  her  slow,  sweet  scenes 
and  cut  'em  down,  and  when  somebody  else  has  the  hit  of 
the  piece,  Mandy  will  let  her  go  if  she  kicks  on  playing  the 
part  as  light  comedy.  She'll  begin  to  realize  the  importance 
of  authors  and  composers  by  the  time  we  get  through  with 
her." 


152  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Thus  it  was  that  Miss  Darrell  Darcy  leaped  into  the  lime- 
light. 

"Of  course,  you  know  you  haven't  much  of  a  voice,"  said 
Gorsuch,  halting  Hertz  in  his  piano-playing  to  speak  to  Miss 
Darcy,  who,  in  "practice"  clothes — i.  e.,  a  pair  of  silk  bloomers, 
a  man's  pajama  jacket,  socks  upheld  by  a  man's  garters,  and 
rubber-soled  shoes — was  standing  alongside  Labouchere's 
piano. 

Miss  Darcy  nodded  sadly,  her  long  black  lashes  settling  on 
her  flushed  cheeks. 

"And  you  can't  dance  any  better  than  any  other  average 
chorus  girl,"  pursued  Gorsuch.  The  girl  nodded  again,  biting 
at  lips  the  color  of  a  Japanese  rose.  "As  for  your  acting — 
well,  let's  not  call  it  acting.  And  yet,  Miss  Darcy,  you're, 
going  to  be  a  great  big  hit." 

Miss  Darcy  looked  at  him,  puzzled,  then  blushed  and  began 
picking  at  her  bloomers  with  little  hands,  and  looking  down 
at  equally  small  feet.  "Oh,  no,  Mr.  Gorsuch,"  she  said 
humbly. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Darcy,"  he  replied.  "And  why?  Not 
because  you  can  sing,  dance,  or  act — you  sing  like  a  dancer, 
and  dance  like  an  actor,  and  act  like  a  singer.  That  is,  or- 
dinarily. But  because  we  three  have  worn  ourselves  out 
teaching  you  note  by  note,  step  by  step,  and  each  gesture  and 
inflection  separately,  and  because  Mr.  Mandelbaum  has  spent 
a  thousand  or  so  on  the  costumes  of  that  number,  and  because 
Mr.  Ledyard  has  worked  overtime  showing  off  all  his  dancing 
tricks  for  chorus  encores,  and,  also,  because  the  song  is  a 
great  song,  all  the  papers  tomorrow  will  hail  you  as  the  hope 
of  future  American  musical  comedy." 

In  the  abashed  young  woman,  her  socially  prominent  ad- 
mirers, whom  she  ruled  warningly,  would  not  have  recognized 
the  "divinely  beautiful"  Darrell  Darcy. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  153 

"Just  don't  add  any  ideas  of  your  own,  that's  all,"  Gor- 
such  continued,  with  severity.  "Kindly  remember  you're  a 
phonograph  inside  a  dancing  doll.  Get  the  stage  doorkeeper 
to  give  you  a  hat-check  for  what  you  call  your  brains.  Leave 
them  in  the  key-rack  at  the  stage-entrance.  Remember,  Hal 
Hertz's  brains  are  in  your  singing,  Labby's  in  your  intona- 
tions, Mr.  Ledyard's  in  your  dancing,  mine  in  your  acting, 
and  any  one  of  them  is  forty  times  as  big  as  your  own — " 

"Oh,  say,  Laurie,"  protested  Labouchere,  "wait  a  minute." 
Hertz,  too,  seemed  about  to  intervene,  but  Gorsuch  frowned 
both  out  of  existence. 

"And  listen,"  he  continued.  "When  you've  made  your  hit, 
take  these  tips:  Don't  accept  any  part  that  has  over  a  hun- 
dred words  in  it.  It'll  take  longer  than  the  regulation  four 
weeks'  rehearsals  for  you  to  learn  to  speak  more  than  a 
hundred  words  correctly.  And  never  take  a  song  unless  you're 
sure  it  would  be  a  hit  with  anybody  singing  it — the  kind  the 
gallery  boys  whistle.  And  hire  the  best  coach  you  can  get  to 
teach  it  to  you  word  for  word,  just  as  we've  done.  <  Parts, 
too.  Remember  you've  got  nothing  except  your  face  and 
figure.  Never  forget  that ;  no  matter  what  you  kid  managers 
and  critics  into  thinking,  just  keep  saying  to  yourself:  'Gee, 
I'm  lucky' — lucky,  that's  all.  Understand? 

"And  whenever  you  meet  a  man  who  can  teach  you  some- 
thing, don't  start  telling  him  how  great  you  are;  just  keep 
still  and  listen  to  what  he  has  to  say.  That's  the  only  way 
you'll  ever  fool  a  clever  man — by  not  talking.  And,  by  and 
bye,  you  may  learn  enough  to  be  able  to  keep  up  your  end  in 
an  intelligent  conversation.  ...  It  doesn't  make  any  difference 
to  me,"  he  concluded,  "but  since  we  started  you  off,  I  thought 
I'd  show  you  how  you  could  keep  it  up.  Well,  so  long! 
See  you  to-morrow  night  in  Troy."  For  it  was  the  last  day 
of  rehearsals  and  the  piece  opened  out-of-town  the  next  night. 

The  telephone  bell  had  rung  as  Gorsuch  finished,  and  Hal 


154  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Hertz,  who  had  answered  it,  handed  the  receiver  to  Darrell. 
Her  inquiry  over  the  wire  brought  an  answer  from  a  young 
man  who  was  so  well-known  that  he  could  speak  haughtily 
to  the  head-waiters  of  Canary's,  and  Curate's,  the  Fitz- Wedge- 
wood  hotels,  the  supper-clubs  of  May  fair,  the  cabarets  of 
Montmartre,  and  the  restaurants  of  the  Rue  Royale,  and  the 
Riviera.  But  his  tone  was  humble  in  addressing  Miss  Darcy. 

"I've  arranged  a  bang-up  farewell  dinner  at  the  Chateau 
Versailles,"  he  said.  "We'll  motor  out  of  this  hot  hole  of 
a  city  and  have  a  great  ride  down  the  Motor  Parkway  at 
sixty  miles  an  hour.  You  and  I  and — "  He  mentioned  some 
names  well-known  to  Wall  Street.  "And  you  can  invite  any 
girls  you  like.  We'll  have  a  swim  in  the  lake  when  we  get 
there.  Some  idea — what?" 

Now  it  was  a  day  of  heat  such  as  to  try  the  souls  of 
humanity;  the  hospitals  were  full,  and  men  with  no  social 
position  to  jeopardize  were  walking  the  streets  in  that  upper 
garment  supposed  to  be  seen  only  by  the  bedroom  mirror. 
Therefore,  Miss  Darcy  should  have  welcomed  eagerly  a  thirty- 
five  mile  motor-trip  with  iced  champagne,  quail  in  aspic,  and 
other  costly  luxuries,  served  at  a  rural  table  swept  by  breezes 
from  a  highly  ornamental  and  expensive  lake.  But,  while  the 
young  gentleman  at  the  Racket  Club  talked,  she  had  heard 
Gorsuch  plan  a  most  commonplace  taxicab  drive  to  a  restaurant 
overlooking  the  Drive. 

"No,"  she  said  into  the  telephone,  "no,  I  can't  possibly." 

She  cut  short  arguments  and  persuasions  by  repeating  this 
in  a  tone  colder,  if  possible;  and  the  Racket  Club  booth  held 
a  young  man  to  whom  Long  Island  lakes  and  motoring  had 
lost  all  charm.  "I've  got  to  hurry  now,"  said  Miss  Darcy. 
"Then  when  you  get  back — opening  night,"  entreated  the  crest- 
fallen one.  "Let  me  give  you  a  supper  at  Curate's:  their 
big  double  private  room.  I'll  have  them  put  a  thousand 
pounds  of  ice  in  it  and  electric  fans  to  keep  it  cool,  and — " 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  155 

"Well,  I'll  see,"  said  Miss  Darcy.  "I'll  see.  Good-bye."  Thus 
coolly  did  she  dismiss  one  who  imagined  her  of  all  women 
the  most  wonderful,  to  smile  upon  one  who  thought  nothing 
of  the  sort. 

"You  want  to  hustle  into  your  clothes,"  said  Gorsuch. 
"We've  got  to  go  to  dinner  now,  and  Labby's  got  to  lock 
the  door." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  eat  any  dinner,"  said  Miss  Darcy,  her 
tone  in  marked  contrast  to  the  one  she  had  used  over  the 
wire :  "I  just  can't  bear  the  idea  of  going  home  to  that  stuffy 
little  flat.  May  I  stay  here,  Mr.  Labouchere;  I  guess  I  can 
get  a  little  breeze  at  that  bay-window,  and  would  you  ask 
the  restaurant  next  door  to  send  up  some  sandwiches  ?" 

Gorsuch  moved  to  the  window  indicated  as  though  to  test 
its  cooling  qualities.  They  proved  to  be  negligible.  He  re- 
moved his  hat  and  fanned  himself;  but  something  besides 
the  heat  was  making  him  uncomfortable,  now. 

"Well,  hurry  up  in  there,"  he  called  to  where  Miss  Darcy 
was  changing  into  her  street-clothes.  "If  you  hurry,  maybe 
we'll  let  you  come  along  with  us."  His  tone  was  none  too 
gracious  and  the  proffered  entertainment  was  such  that,  from 
the  Racket  Club  young  gentleman,  it  would  have  been  re- 
garded as  an  insult.  To  gain  such  gratitude  as  the  young 
lady's  acceptance  evinced,  the  one  who  had  telephoned  must 
have  spent  a  large  part  of  his  family  fortune. 

"Can't  very  well  not  ask  her,"  muttered  Gorsuch  apolo- 
getically to  his  collaborators,  "although  it's  a  bore." 

But  when  Miss  Darcy  appeared,  radiant  despite  the  heat, 
and  Gorsuch  was  forced  to  consider  her,  for  the  first  time, 
with  other  than  a  strictly  professional  eye,  he  was  guiltily 
unsure  that  it  was  to  be  a  bore. 

Alone  that  night,  Miss  Darcy  smiled  complacently  at  her 
bedroom  mirror.  "Listen  and  don't  talk — that's  the  only 
way  to  fool  a  clever  man/^she  reflected.  Presently  she 


156  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

stamped  her  foot:     "I'll  make  him  like  me  if  I  never  say 
another  word  the  rest  of  my  life." 

Which  proves  that  an  easy  way  to  win  a  woman  is  by 
not  trying  to  win  her  at  all;  but  whether  it  is  because  of 
pique  or  because  all  women  yearn  for  the  happy  days  of 
caves  and  clubs,  no  man  can  say. 

Five  years  later,  Henry  Lloyd  Labouchere,  author  of 
"Noumeia,  a  South  Sea  Tragedy"  and  a  prosperous  copra 
merchant  of  Kaliokua,  walked  into  Curate's  and,  where  once 
he  would  have  been  hailed  by  at  least  nine  out  of  every  ten 
there  assembled,  saw  a  sea  of  stranger  faces.  All  save  one, 
that  of  a  reporter  for  a  theatrical  journal  who  failed  to 
recognize  him  because  of  his  beard.  Labby  disclosed  his 
identity. 

"An  uncle  died  out  there  in  the  South  Seas  and  I  was  his, 
heir,"  Labouchere  explained  anent  his  long  absence  from 
Broadway.  "I'm  only  back  for  a  visit.  I  went  to  sell  out, 
but  after  I  saw  the  Islands  I  realized  what  Stevenson  meant 
when  he  said  it  was  Paradise  for  a  writing  man." 

"You've  proved  it,  anyway,  the  stir  you've  made  in  the 
literary  world,"  said  the  reporter,  enthusiastically. 

"I  didn't  have  to  live  by  my  writing,"  returned  Labouchere. 
"For  all  my  wonderful  notices  and  my  picture  in  all  the 
literary  journals,  I  haven't  made  as  much  from  all  my  books 
as  I  did  on  one  musical  comedy." 

"Your  two  pals  are  in  the  same  boat,  then,"  said  the 
reporter.  "Hal  Hertz  married  a  rich  woman  crazy  about 
music,  and  conducts  a  symphony  orchestra  that  costs  about 
twice  as  much  to  run  as  the  public  pay  to  hear  it.  And 
Laurie  Gorsuch  is  writing  novels — " 

"I  know,"  said  Labouchere.  "I  get  the  English  editions 
out  there.  He's  the  onl$fe£y  American  novelist,  in  jny 
opinion." 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  157 

"He  doesn't  sell  ten  thousand  copies  apiece,  though — Eng- 
lish, American,  Australian,  Canadian,  foreign  editions  thrown 
in,"  the  reporter  informed  him.  "He's  married,  too — luckily 
for  him.  She  makes  the  money,  although  I  guess  if  it  wasn't 
for  him  Darrell  Darcy  wouldn't  be  any  star.  But  he's  her 
manager  and  press  agent,  and  what  he  loses  on  his  novels, 
he  gets  back  on  her  shows." 

"Laurie  married  her?"  said  Labouchere  incredulously. 
"That  little  thing!" 

"Guess  he  didn't  have  much  to  say  about  it,"  chuckled  the 
reporter.  "She  just  stuck  around.  Even  if  he  didn't  call  for 
her  after  the  show,  she'd  go  from  one  restaurant  to  another 
until  she  found  him,  and  then  she'd  come  in  and  sit  down  at 
the  table  as  if  he  was  expecting  her.  And  she'd  trot  around 
to  his  place  and  sit  there  darning  his  socks  and  sewing  buttons 
on  his  shirts  while  we  all  talked  away  at  transcendentalism 
and  mysticism  and  paleontology  and  what-not — and  never 
sa'ying  a  word.  When  he  was  sick  she  came  and  nursed  him ; 
and  finally — well,  she  just  stuck  around,  I  tell  you  and  made 
herself  useful,  and  put  everything  up  to  Laurie,  until  I  guess 
he  saw  it  was  no  use  trying  to  dodge,  so  he  married  her.  I 
guess  he  must  have  worked  pretty  hard  with  her,  for  soon 
after  that  she  was  featured,  and  two  years  ago,  they  put  their 
own  money  into  a  show  and  put  her  name  up.  Been  making 
barrels  ever  since.  She's  rehearsing  a  new  piece  over  the 
way  now.  If  you  wait  here,  they  ought  to  drop  in,  any 
minute." 

They  went  on  talking  of  other  friends  and  their  fortunes  or 
lack  of  them,  until  the  summer  afternoon  waned,  and  actors  and 
actresses,  stage-managers  and  authors,  composers  and  leaders, 
all  began  to  enter  and  in  exhausted  tones  to  call  for  cooling 
drinks.  "There,"  said  the  reporter  suddenly,  pointing  to  a 
trio  who  had  seated  themselves  at  a  table  within  earshot. 


158  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"The  other  two  are  that  new  composer  and  librettist  Laurie 
dug  up  somewhere — college  amateurs,  I  guess." 

Labby  was  about  to  rise,  but  Gorsuch  was  talking  earnestly, 
and  Labby  listened. 

"I'm  perfectly  aware  the  contract  I'm  offering  you  is  for 
less  than  you  could  get  elsewhere,"  said  Gorsuch  tolerantly. 
"But  you  must  remember,  boys,  that  you  have  the  inestimable 
advantage  of  an  artiste  to  play  your  principal  part  and  do 
your  most  important  numbers.  Yes,  it's  a  great  part,  and 
they're  bully  numbers,  but  what's  the  difference  how  great 
a  part  is  unless  you  have  a  great  performer  in  it?  Eh?  It'll 
fall  down,  won't  it?  Songs,  too.  What's  the  difference  be- 
tween a  million-copy  hit  and  a  piece  of  shop-counter  music? 
Only  the  person  who  sings  it.  There're  a  thousand  composers 
who  could  write  hits,  but  only  a  few  artists.  What's  the 
result  ?  Only  a  few  hits.  Same  way  with  plays — understand  ?" 

The  two  boys  nodded  sagely  each  to  the  other.  "Better 
go  over  and  see  my  secretary,  Parsons,  and  sign  up,  then," 
said  Gorsuch.  When  they  left  him  as  people  leave  a  bene- 
factor, Labby  laughed  loudly,  and  crossing,  tapped  his  friend's 
shoulder. 

"Which  do  you  really  believe,  Laurie,"  he  asked,  "what 
you  told  those  boys,  or  what  you  told  Darrell  when  we  re- 
hearsed her  in  the  Piper  song?" 

"Labby!"  said  Gorsuch,  and  violently  overjoyed,  gripped 
his  hand.  "Dear  old  Labby!  When—?" 

"Answer  my  question  first,"  interrupted  Labouchere. 
"Which?"  Gorsuch  was  laughing,  too. 

"What  7  told  Darrell f"  he  asked,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "Oh, 
you  mean  what  Lawrence  Northrup  Gorsuch  told  Miss  Darcy  ? 
That  fellow  lives  up  in  Westchester  and  writes  novels,  and 
he  tells  his  wife  to-day  just  what  he  told  Miss  Darcy  then. 
But  the  man  who  was  talking  to  those  boys  is  supposed  by 
his  theatrical  company  to  be  Mr.  Darcy,  'only  her  husband/ 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  159 

and  it's  his  duty  to  protect  his  wife  against  the  slanders  of 
such  people  as  Lawrence  Northrup  Gorsuch.  See?  If  he 
didn't,  there  wouldn't  be  any  Gorsuch  novels." 

"Doing  what  you  don't  want  to  do  so  you  can  do  what  you 
want  to  do — I  guess  you're  right,  Laurie,"  said  Labouchere 
thoughtfully.  "On  the  same  principle,  H.  L.  Labouchere 
devotes  half  his  time  to  being  a  copra  merchant,  so  for  the 
other  half  I  can  be  Henry  Lloyd  Labouchere,  poet.  Eh?" 

"And  Hal  Hertz  escorts  his  wife  to  fashionable  functions 
and  lets  her  show  herself  off  in  horse-show  and  opera-boxes, 
and  other  places  where  peacocks  plume  themselves — sure," 
returned  Gorsuch,  and,  immediately  thereafter,  laughed  again. 
"Why  not  ?  It's  our  pleasure  to  work  as  we  want  to  do,  and 
as  everybody  else  pays  for  their  pleasures,  why  shouldn't 
we?  Which,  in  its  last  analysis,  is  the  answer  to  all  life, 
Labby.  So  if  you'll  wait  a  little,  while  Miss  Darcy's  husband 
transacts  a  little  more  sordid  business,  he'll  take  you  out  to 
Westchester,  to  see  that  fellow  Gorsuch,  who  has  quite  an 
admiration  for  the  poetry  of  Henry  Lloyd  Labouchere." 

"And — Ida  Dare?"  asked  the  critic,  his  enthusiasm  for 
Conradian  ethics  tottering. 

"She  married  a  rich  man's  son,  later,  caught  him  up  to 
his  old-time  tricks,  left  him,  and  being  a  good  Catholic,  re- 
fused him  a  divorce." 

"Ah,"  said  the  critic,  his  faith  in  Conrad  returning. 

"But  his  father,"  pursued  Gorsuch,  "had  climbed  up  every 
step  of  the  ladder,  from  peddler  to  millionaire,  with  his  foot 
on  somebody's  life,  and  his  only  excuse  for  piling  up  so 
much  money  was  to  found  a  family  and  pass  the  name  on. 
Ida's  husband  was  his  only  son,  and,  as  Ida  won't  divorce 
him,  the  old  man's  punished  for  his  rapacity  by  never  seeing 
his  ambition  realized.  Fairly  well-constructed  drama  again, 
eh?  Oh,  I  guess  you'll  find  the  Stage  Manager  of  the  Universe 


160  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

is  always  on  the  job,  if  you  take  the  trouble  to  dig  deep 
enough  into  facts.    Want  any  more?" 

On  his  way  home,  as  he  passed  an  excavation,  the  critic 
hurled  into  it  a  volume  that,  aside  from  its  ethics,  contained 
much  he  should  have  cherished. 


IV.  "CLASS" 

/F  it  is  true  that  a  Frenchman's  tune,  "The  Marseillaise" 
gave  France  equality,  then  let  that  unknown  negro  "pro- 
fessor" who  wrote  the  first  turkey  trot  step  forvoard 
and  share  his  honors,  for  he  has  destroyed  the  last  American 
social  barrier.  His  should  be  the  National  Anthem  instead 
of  an  out-of-date  Teutonic  tune,  whose  lyric  contains  not  one 
single  reference  to  the  turkey  trot  and  the  grizzly  bear.  Has 
this  anachronism  brought  "The"  Avenue  and  Avenue  A  to 
the  practices  of  blood  brothers?  We  zvot  not.  Azvay  with  it. 
Let  us  have  something  more  typical  of  a  nation  whose  pride 
is  speed.  Drop  overboard  art,  education  and  breeding  on 
the  way:  the  man  ahead  hasn't  got  them;  only  those  lunatics 
who  tarry  to  admire  sunsets  and  scenery,  who  linger  at 
libraries  and  stop  at  picture  galleries;  some  of  whom,  crown- 
ing idiocy  of  all,  actually  pause  to  wonder  where  they  are 
going  and  whether  they  will  like  it  when  they  get  there. 

With  such  half-witted  persons  as  these  we  have,  naturally, 
no  concern — are  we  not  a  patriotic  American?  Let  us,  rather, 
consider  the  case  of  Rosa  Riley,  who,  thanks  to  the  turkey 
trot,  stepped  up  from  the  Bowery  onto  Fifth  Avenue  and, 
hampered  with  none  of  those  idiotic  impediments,  found  her- 
self very  much  at  home  there. 


IN  the  world  of  vaudeville  and  musical  shows,  there  is  a 
type  of  man  whose  success  depends  almost  entirely  upon  his 

161 


162  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

partner.  He  can  dance  every  known  step,  can  learn  in  a 
jiffy  any  new  one,  can  speak  lines  without  embarrassment, 
can  even  sing  in  an  acceptable  sort  of  way.  But  alone  he 
never  wins  renown — lacking  as  he  does  that  golden,  gracious 
thing  that,  for  want  of  its  better  understanding,  is  "person- 
ality." 

But  given  a  partner  with  this  gift,  the  team  leaps  into 
sudden  prominence;  these  men  have  a  most  amazing  ability 
for  bringing  out  the  best  in  others.  Knowing  their  own 
efforts  to  be  uninteresting,  they  subordinate  them  in  such  a 
way  as  to  heighten  their  partners'.  Theirs  the  questions,  the 
partners  the  amusing  answers.  Theirs  the  laborious  part  of 
the  dancing,  saving  their  partners'  breath  for  clever  athletic 
tricks.  Theirs  the  melody,  showy  trills  and  cadenzas  for  the 
partners.  .  .  .  Moreover,  they  are  excellent  business  men  and 
know  how  to  get  the  best  positions  on  the  bill,  the  best  booking, 
the  most  advertising  for  the  money.  .  .  .  But  lacking  the 
partner,  they  languish. 

Such  was  Dave  Dunkerley,  his  habitat  a  certain  Bon  Ton 
Music  Hall  on  the  lower  East  Side.  Here  he  played  the 
piano  for  the  moving  pictures,  did  an  eccentric  song-and-dance 
turn  to  his  own  accompaniment  on  the  banjo,  played  the 
principal  part  in  the  "after  pieces" — tabloid  burlesques  put  on 
at  holiday  times.  These  he  also  wrote — rather  rewrote  from 
the  memor-y  of  many;  selected  tunes,  rehearsed  and  staged 
them. 

And  each  night,  instead  of  prayers,  he  delivered  himself 
of  anathemas  directed  at  the  head  of  his  former  partner, 
Ed.  E.  McCue.  Him  he  had  found  a  drunken  medicine-show 
shouter,  had  taught  him  to  dance,  had  "staked"  him  to  "new 
scenery" — his  clothes  being  in  collapse;  with  him  had  then 
"doubled  up,"  playing  Northwestern  low-priced  vaudeville. 
Then,  by  dint  of  patience,  cunning  and  foresight,  he  had 
managed  to  get  booking  that  brought  them  as  close  to  Broad- 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  163 

way  as  the  Bronx;  persuading  a  powerful  agent  to  make  a 
journey  to  their  "picture  house." 

But,  unfortunately,  the  agent  had  come  in  a  motor  car 
belonging  to  one  who  had  an  interest  in  a  firm  that  produced 
musical  shows.  This  person  had  been  so  captivated  by  Ed. 
E.  McCue's  laughter-provoking  performance  that,  next  day, 
while  the  agent  was  making  out  a  five-year  contract  with  the 
team,  McCue  was  summoned  by  Mandelbaum  to  prove  his 
comic  abilities.  Which  he  did,  and  accordingly  "signed"  as 
second  comedian  in  a  production  soon  to  see  Broadway. 
Comedians  are  scarce  there  as  they  are  everywhere  else.  .  .  . 

McCue  had  spared  Dunkerley  the  oral  details  of  this  ar- 
rangement, slipping  off  to  Syracuse  and  the  show,  leaving 
behind  only  a  querulous  note.  It  then  became  needless  for 
the  agent  to  tell  the  deserted  one  that  the  contract  was  princi- 
pally because  of  the  deserter;  who,  rechristened  "Ned 
McHugh,"  scored  a  Broadway  hit  with  the  very  patter,  songs 
and  dances  that  Dunkerley  had  carefully  arranged,  better  to 
bring  out  McCue's  gifts  of  the  gods,  busy  day  and  night  while 
McCue  was  a  "jolly  good  fellow"  or  was  sleeping  off  the 
effects  of  being  one.  McCue  was  like  any  number  of  brain- 
less clowns  who  never  achieve  anything  beyond  a  bar-room 
celebrity,  unless  an  author  is  moved  to  write  a  part  that  ex- 
actly fits  their  eccentricities  and  a  stage-director  coaches  them 
until  they  reproduce  it  like  a  phonograph  record.  Dunkerley 
had  been  both  author  and  director.  Broadway  has  seen  shoals 
of  such  celebrities;  they  remain  to  borrow  its  dollars  and 
half-dollars  on  the  strength  of  their  "one  part"  fame. 

Dunkerley  grimly  determined  when  he  met  such  another 
that  he  would  guard  himself  against  any  repetition  of  such  a 
catastrophe.  He  had  no  doubt  of  meeting  one :  he  knew  that, 
everywhere,  in  the  most  unlikely  places,  there  was  plenty 
of  talent  of  the  "personality"  sort;  and  that  it  was  usually 
unaware  of  its  own  value  and  almost  always  incapable  or 


164  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

undesirous  of  marketing  it.  Meanwhile  we  find  him  at  the 
Bon  Ton  Theater,  living  on  next  to  nothing,  willing  to  do 
any  extra  work  that  would  add  to  the  small  stock  of  dollars 
he  was  putting  away  toward  the  "act"  that,  as  soon  as  he  found 
his  "partner,"  would  take  him  on  the  "big  time"  he  had  so 
narrowly  missed.  There  was  always  a  small  standing  "ad" 
in  the  cheaper  professional  papers  that  "performers"  were 
'wanted"  at  the  Bon  Ton  Music  Hall;  whither  they  came, 
amateurs  and  seedy  professionals,  were  tried  and  found 
wanting. 

Also  he  visited  other  places  like  the  Bon  Ton,  ever  on  the 
alert  for  "personality."  .  .  .  He  was  to  find  it  at  a  time  and 
in  a  place  where  he  had  no  reason  to  expect  it — nor  was  she 
the  sort  of  partner  he  had  been  seeking.  She  was,  in  fact, 
Rosa  Riley. 


II 

IT  had  been  snowing  all  day,  fitfully,  gustily.  The  snow 
god  in  charge  had  been  dozing,  and  the  few  flakes  that  man- 
aged to  fall  had  slipped  through  his  fingers.  But,  that  night, 
Rosa  Riley's  fairy  godmother  sent  to  tickle  his  feet  and  freeze 
his  whiskers  her  friend  and  ally  the  North  Wind ;  and,  that 
he  might  not  turn  into  an  ice  god,  he  gave  chase,  flinging  his 
darts  wildly.  .  .  .  Which  is  all  very  well  for  gods :  it  keeps 
them  healthy  and  prevents  their  taking  on  weight.  But  our 
little  earth  beneath  them,  their  football,  checker,  chess  and 
domino  board,  undergoes  inconvenient  alterations  thereby. 

For  instance,  when  Dunkerley  emerged  from  his  Bon  Ton 
Theater,  yawning  for  his  Brooklyn  boarding-house,  the  car 
line  south  was  snowbound,  the  Bowery  a  snowy  highway  of 
ice  palaces  until,  far  distant,  a  Gothic  castle  arose;  a  castle 
with  snow  ramparts  innumerable,  snow  terraces,  even  an  im- 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  165 

mense  portcullis  and  drawbridge — where  had  been  Park  Row 
and  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  the  latter  (though  this  Dunkerley 
could  not  see)  a  shining  white  spider-web  sprinkled  with 
star  dust. 

None  of  this  beauty  appealed  particularly  to  one  who  would 
have  much  preferred  a  warmly  heated  southbound  car.  He 
stood  and  cursed  before  plunging  on  downtown.  But  when 
one  sinks  several  feet  at  every  step  walking  is  weary  work; 
so,  half  way  and  half  frozen,  observing  he  stood  near  a  huge 
square  door  that  bore  a  numeral  standing  for  a  notorious 
dance  hall,  he  rang  the  bell,  gave  the  warder  at  the  gate 
assurety  in  the  name  of  the  owner  of  the  Bon  Ton — a  ward 
politician;  and  stepped  in  for  a  warming  drink  of  whiskey. 

The  name  passed  him  down  a  long,  dark  hall  and  into 
the  sudden  glare  of  a  long,  low-ceilinged  room.  At  this 
entrance — someone  having  just  dropped  a  coin  into  the  maw 
of  an  automatic  piano — there  was  a  blatant  blare  of  ragtime, 
accompanied  by  the  scraping  of  chairs  and  the  rattling  of 
glasses.  Somewhat  to  Dunkerley's  surprise,  he  noted  they 
were  dancing  the  latest  Broadway  craze. 

New  Yorkers  are  the  narrowest  people  in  the  world, 
Broadway  the  most  narrow-minded  street.  A  vaudeville  per- 
former had  seen  this  dance  on  San  Francisco's  Barbary  Coast 
(so  called  no  doubt  because  it  holds  so  many  pirates).  She 
had  brought  it  East,  hailing  it  as  new,  and  it  was  immediately 
copied  by  producers.  Dunkerley  had  been  thinking  of  putting 
it  on  at  the  Bon  Ton — as  a  novelty ! !  And  here  it  was  already 
popular — that  knee-locked,  swaying,  shuffling  intimacy,  that 
turkey  trot  todolo,  Spanish-negro  harmony.  Most  of  these 
people  were  dancing  it  as  well  as  those  Broadway  paid  to 
see;  many  danced  it  better;  one  young  tomboy  in  a  scarlet 
tam-o'-shanter  and  a  short  skirt  did  it  so  well  that  once  his 
eyes  fell  upon  her  they  remained  there. 

She  had  all  the  free,  untrammeled  grace  of  some  lithe 


166  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

young  animal  of  the  wild;  and,  as  it  was  a  frankly  animal 
dance,  he  watched  her  as  he  might  have  watched  the  great 
God  Pan,  had  he  come  upon  him  unawares  in  his  native  woods. 

It  served  with  Dunkerley  the  purpose  for  which  it  was 
originally  devised,  stirring  his  sex  instincts  until  his  blood 
hummed  and  hammered  at  his  ears.  Most  people,  endeavoring 
to  emphasize  suggestive  movements,  made  the  dance  vulgar 
and  offensive.  With  her  it  was  but  the  unconscious  expression 
of  instincts  and  desires  otherwise  stifled. 

And  as  Dunkerley  saw  her  face,  with  its  small  features 
and  sullen,  mutinous  yet  withal  eminently  kissable  red  mouth, 
noted  her  lithe  and  lissom,  slender  yet  rounded  boyish  figure, 
and  the  surpassing  grace  and  sinuousness  of  her  movements, 
he  realized,  suddenly,  that  here  was  the  long-looked-for  part- 
ner. Better  than  the  best  comedian,  this  girl;  who  could, 
in  the  reek  of  an  ugly  room,  suddenly  make  a  tired  man  desire 
her  fiercely.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  radiate  color,  breathe  fresh 
air,  air  of  Pan's  forest,  seemed  to  be  dancing  alone  against 
the  skyline.  Her  hair  was  as  vividly  black  as  her  skin  was 
white;  and  her  heavy  eyebrows  and  long  lashes  framed  some 
sort  of  sea-green  eyes.  Her  skin  seemed  as  soft  as  it  was 
white  and  firm. 

"Who  is  she?"  he  asked  his  waiter,  a  bored  and  non- 
chalant gallant  in  a  "sporty"  suit  who  sang  between  dances, 
and  whom  the  question  evidently  touched  on  a  sore  spot. 
"That  little  chippy  skirt?"  he  returned.  "Look  out  for  your 
souper  while  she's  around — one  of  these-yere  chicken  gun 
molls.  .  .  .  No,  she  ain't  got  no  fellow.  She  bust  a  bottle 
over  a  good  guy's  nut  onct — and  he  jest  give  her  a  little  kiss ! 
Them  kind  of  frails  ain't  no  good  to  themselves  nur  nobody 
else  neither.  .  .  .  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  regular  girl."  .  .  . 

Which  Dunkerley  hastily  declined;  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  dance,  before  Miss  Riley  could  resume  her  seat,  ap- 
proached her,  card  in  hand,  a  professional  card  that  read  like 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  1G7 

a  theatrical  advertisement.  At  this  she  glanced  carelessly; 
and,  though  she  excused  herself  to  her  friend,  and  permitted 
Dunkerley  to  pay  for  her  drink,  she  was  uninterested  in  what 
he  had  to  say.  In  vain  he  outlined  incontrovertible  facts. 
The  turkey  trot  was  as  yet  in  its  infancy  along  Broadway. 
Pioneers  always  garnered  prizes.  Being  a  dancer  of  unusual 
ability  and  having  a  vivid  personality,  with  him  to  direct  her 
it  was  impossible  she  should  fail.  He  had  the  money  appro- 
priately to  costume  the  act.  He  knew  how  to  get  them  a 
hearing.  .  .  .  And  so  forth  and  so  on.  He  was  amazed  at 
his  lack  of  success  in  impressing  her:  she  must  be  the  worst 
sort  of  ambitionless  dullard. 

But,  when  she  spoke,  he  saw  this  was  not  so.  The  girl's 
English  was  execrable:  she  converted  principal  diphthongs 
into  broad  "d's";  had  an  exceedingly  limited  vocabulary  and 
mispronounced  the  simplest  polysyllables.  Of  all  this  she 
seemed  aware,  and  told  him  so.  "Me?  I'd  be  a  fine-lookin' 
object  uptown,  /  would !"  she  concluded  scornfully.  "Whadda 
I  wanta  go  up  agen  people  thatt'd  give  me  the  horse  laff 
every  time  I  open  me  trap?  I'd  be  sore  on  meself  all  d'  time, 
and  sore  on  d'  world,  and  wantin'  to  scrap  wid  everybody. 
I'd  tryan  talk  right  and  I'd  make  nothin'  but  breaks.  Not  in 
mine,  mister.  I'm  just  right  where  I  am.  I  ain't  got  a 
neducation,  but  I'm  wise  how  to  git  by  and  live  nice  an'  not 
work  like  a  dog  neither.  So  much  obliged,  but  nothin'  doin', 
an'  thank  you  for  the  drink  an'  so  long."  .  .  . 

Her  words  and  her  gesture  were  final.  Dunkerley  took 
himself  off  with  something  else  to  swear  about  besides  the 
weather — returning  on  several  occasions  within  the  next 
week.  On  his  third  visit  she  flew  into  a  rage:  she  would 
"bend  somethin'  over  his  beezer  if  he  didn't  let  her  alone." 
She'd  told  him  no  until  now  she  was  tired.  .  .  . 

It  was  nothing  short  of  miraculous  then  that  there  ap- 
peared in  the  Bon  Ton  Music  Hall  less  than  a  week  later  a 


. 


168  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

chastened  young  miss  who  spoke  so  softly  that  Dunkerley 
must  several  times  request  a  repetition.  Gone  were  scarlet 
tam-o'-shanter,  violent  checked  skirt,  tawdry  blouse  of  imita- 
tion "baby  Irish,"  huge  bows  of  ribbon  to  her  shoes,  loud 
speech  and  rowdy  gestures.  She  had  not  even  interrupted  his 
rehearsal  with  the  film  man — he  was  fitting  musical  accom- 
paniments to  the  weekly  change  of  reels;  but  sat  huddled  up 
in  a  back  seat  until  Dunkerley  discovered  her.  When  he  did, 
she  said,  in  a  very  low,  indistinct  voice,  that,  were  it  possible 
his  offer  had  been  serious,  she  begged  forgiveness  for  her 
ignorant,  common  behavior  and  would  do  whatever  he  sug- 
gested. Only  she  thought  it  fair  she  should  be  allowed  to 
pay  her  part  and  would  buy  her  own  costumes;  but  she 
wished  a  "gentleman  friend"  of  hers  might  accompany  them 
at  their  selection  as  she  strongly  desired  his  (the  gentleman 
friend's)  approval.  ...  It  was  then  that  Dunkerley  noticed 
that  she  wore  the  most  somber  of  clothes :  plain  white  waist 
with  coat,  skirt,  hat,  gloves,  shoes  and  stockings,  all  of  black. 
Dunkerley  lowered  his  voice  and  adopted  the  manner 
generally  used  for  inquiry  as  to  death  in  the  family.  She 
giggled  nervously.  "I — I  didn't  know  what  else  to  g-get," 
she  explained ;  then  virtuously :  "I  hate  loud  clothes." 


Ill 

* 

WHEN,  a  few  days  later,  they  went  to  order  her  costumes, 
Dunkerley's  suspicions  of  her  metamorphosis  was  confirmed 
by  the  sight  of  the  "gentleman  friend."  There  was  something 
about  this  youth  that  Dunkerley  vaguely  identified  as  "class" 
— the  sort  of  thinness  that  gives  height  and  that  glorifies 
clothes;  a  small  mouth — and  a  weak  one;  and  hair  that  lay 
so  smooth  on  his  small  head  and  shining  scalp  that  it  looked 
as  though  it  were  painted  there.  .  .  .  This  person  bestowed 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  169 

upon  Miss  Riley  an  almost  beneficent  patronage.  He  took 
an  interest  in  that  little  girl,  he  told  Dunkerley;  he  wanted 
to  see  her  a  ripping  success.  Rosa  could  hardly  contain  her- 
self for  pride.  She  referred  to  him  as  Mr.  Moncure,  but 
sometimes,  timidly,  ventured  on  "Charlie." 

Mr.  Moncure  took  the  affair  of  the  costumes  entirely  into 
his  own  hands :  he  had  a  sister,  he  said,  who  was  the  best- 
dressed  little  filly  that  ever  was  foaled,  and  the  little  filly 
knew  what  was  what  in  clothes.  He  waved  away  all  sug- 
gestions as  to  costume  firms,  and  whirled  them  off  in  a  taxi 
to  an  "atelier"  where  he  began  to  bully  a  Frenchman  in  a 
silken  waistcoat  and  tie  to  match,  a  person  so  gorgeous  that 
Dunkerley  addressed  him  as  "sir."  But  to  Mr.  Moncure, 
he  was  less  than  a  gum-chewing  shop-girl.  This  was  con- 
ventional— that  was  cheap — those  clashed — that  was  too  much 
Montmartre. 

"Look  here,  man,  this  girl's  what  you  might  call  untutored 
— wild — a  little  savage."  (He  did  not  seem  to  mind  Rosa  in 
the  least.)  "Her  costumes  must  suggest  that.  Fig  leaves  and 
tiger  skins.  Corking  idea.  Tiger  skin:  black  and  yellow — 
skin-tight  effect — that's  one  costume.  And  the  other.  Think 
of  her  naked  except  from  some  sticky  stuff  and  the  leaves 
just  falling  and  stick  to  her!  Autumn  leaves.  They've  got 
her  colors.  All  kinds  of  reds  and  yellows,  particularly  yellow 
— tawny  yellow.  These  costumes  ought  to  make  you  a  bigger 
'rep'  than  ever  if  you  do  'em  right.  Not  often  you  get  a 
chance  at  a  freak  type  like  her — healthy  young  savage.  .  .  . 
Never  mind  about  the  expense — you  get  the  costumes  right" 

Catside,  Dunkerley  ventured  to  remonstrate.  "We  can't 
afford — "  he  began;  but  Moncure  cut  him  short.  "Anybody 
can  afford  the  best,"  he  said.  "Now,  for  you — "  He  measured 
him  with  a  critical  eye.  "By  the  bye,  you  must  have  your 
hair  cut  decently.  I'll  take  you  to  my  tailor  for  your  dress 
clothes,  and  then  we'll  have  your  top  hat  and  shoes  made  to 


170  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

order.  You  cut  along,  little  girl — your  part  of  it's  done. 
'Phone  me  later.  I've  often  wanted  to  see  a  vaudeville  team 
dressed  right,"  he  told  Dunkerley  as  they  left  her.  "They 
always  look  such  muckers."  .  .  . 

Before  the  morning  was  over,  Dunkerley  found  he  had 
contracted  to  pay  as  much  for  a  silk  hat  and  a  pair  of  pumps 
as  he  had  expected  to  pay  for  his  clothes;  the  clothes  came 
to  almost  as  much  as  what  he  had  figured  would  costume 
the  act.  Meeting  Rosa  for  rehearsal,  she  seemed  to  expect 
him  to  share  her  awed  admiration  for  this  person  who  had 
plunged  them  into  debt.  "Isn't  he  wonderful?"  she  asked. 
And  then,  because  she  wanted  to  talk  of  her  beloved,  part  of 
the  story  came  out. 

Moncure,  on  a  drunken  ramble,  had  stumbled  into  the 
dance-hall  a  few  nights  before,  had  caught  her  around  the 
waist,  and  whirled  her  into  the  dance  without  so  much  as 
"by  your  leave."  High  words  had  followed  with  the  very 
same  waiter  who  had  informed  Dunkerley  concerning  Rosa; 
Moncure  resenting  his  familiar  address  to  her — the  result  a 
fight  in  which  the  hardy  explorer  was  pulled  down,  deer 
and  dogs,  hurled  out  hurt  and  bleeding.  He  would  have  lost 
his  watch  and  money,  too,  if  she  had  not  swiftly  possessed 
herself  of  them  before  any  other  could  do  so ;  had  then  gone 
with  him  to  bathe  and  bind  up  his  hurts.  .  .  .  This  was  as 
much  as  she  would  tell  Dunkerley.  It  was  doubtful  if  she 
understood  what  had  followed. 

No  man  may  win  a  woman  utterly  until  he  has  been  both 
her  master  and  her  child.  Both  instincts  must  be  stirred,  the 
ages-old  primitive  one  that  caused  her  to  cower  before  the 
club  of  the  caveman,  the  even  older  thrill  of  a  baby  at  her 
breast.  Until  ye  are  as  little  children  ye  may  not  enter  the 
Kingdom  of  Love.  A  man  having  convinced  a  woman  of 
his  strength,  she  pardons  any  weakness  save  cowardice. 
Pardons?  Nay,  welcomes.  It  is  an  emphasis  of  his  need 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK 

of  her.  And,  as  Moncure  lay  back  on  his  sofa,  very  pale 
and  white,  he  had  caught  her  hand,  feebly.  Cold,  it  became 
burning  hot,  his  also.  As  he  opened  his  eyes,  she  had  seen 
him  through  a  mist;  and  when  he  drew  down  her  lips,  thty 
were  utterly  his. 

She  had  skipped  the  next  morning,  also,  in  telling  Dunker- 
ley.  With  Moncure,  taking  for  granted  that,  having  given 
herself  at  last,  he  was  as  much  hers  as  she  was  his,  she  had 
spoken  of  other  nights.  But  Moncure's  had  been  only  a 
drunken  passion  and  he  wanted  to  be  rid  of  her.  He  had 
found  reasonable  objections  in  her  calling;  for,  that  he  might 
not  underestimate  the  value  of  her  devotion,  she  had  begged 
him  not  to  confuse  her  with  the  easy-virtued  woman  of  the 
dance-hall :  she  was,  if  anything,  rather  vain  of  her  dexterity 
as  a  pocket-rifler. 

But  Moncure  had  looked  grave,  pointing  out  how  impos- 
sible this  made  any  further  intimacy.  If  he  could  afford  to 
support  her  .  .  .  But  he  could  not.  It  was  better  they  sepa- 
rate before  they  grew  to  care  too  much  for  each  other. 

With  her  scanty  vocabulary,  even  if  she  had  made  shift 
to  tell  this  to  Dunkerley,  she  could  not  have  explained  the 
effect  upon  her  of  the  morning  sunlight  on  Moncure's  old 
mahogany,  on  the  shining  silver  of  the  toilet-table,  on  Gramercy 
Park  just  over  the  way.  She  shuddered  at  a  picture  of  the 
police  entering  such  a  place  in  search  of  a  thief — such  a 
desecration  was  impossible.  For  the  moment,  she  had  been 
on  the  point  of  succumbing  to  fate.  He  was  right.  Since 
he  could  not  support  her,  he  could  not  ask  her  to  cease  steal- 
ing; and  her  lack  of  education  made  her  unfit  for  any  other 
occupation  except  that  of  a  servant,  or  else  the  hardest  kind  of 
work  in  factories  and  sweatshops;  and  his  apartment  was 
equally  no  place  for  a  girl  with  work-hardened  hands  and 
coarse  clothes. 

But  she  had  looked  at  him  and  could  not — there  is  some- 


172  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

thing  fiercely  faithful  about  one  who  has  kept  herself  so  long 
for  her  first  lover.  .  .  .  Then  she  had  remembered  Dunkerley's 
card,  and,  for  her,  the  problem  was  solved. 


IV 

« 

HAD  her  sharp  little  eyes  been  able  to  peer  deep  into  the 
mind  of  Mr.  Moncure,  she  would  not  have  been  so  sure.  All 
the  time  that  young  man  had  been  in  her  company  and  that 
of  Dunkerley's,  he  had  suffered  exquisite  tortures.  Suppose 
he  should  be  seen  by  men  of  the  club,  or  women  of  his  calling- 
list.  For  the  thousandth  time  he  cursed  his  drunken  passion. 
Not  that  the  thought  of  her  seduction  gave  him  any  qualms: 
that,  to  his  mind,  was  the  only  redeeming  feature  of  the 
adventure — to  conquer  a  fortress  that  had  been  besieged  so 
much  and  held  so  long:  another  confirmation  of  his  celebrated 
charm.  But  self-esteem  could  be  gratified  at  too  high  a  cost: 
he  must  now  rid  himself  of  his  incubus.  He  had  never 
imagined  that  to  "make  herself  worthy  of  him,"  she  would 
even  discard  the  gaudy  clothes  so  dear  to  those  of  her  type, 
much  less  abandon  a  congenial  calling  for  hard  work  and 
study. 

If  she  would  only  come  to  him  now  and  then — but  she 
wanted  his  companionship,  his  instruction,  his  assistance — 
as  to-day,  for  instance.  .  .  .  Now  Mr.  Moncure's  position  in 
society  was  none  too  secure:  with  an  income  of  less  than 
twenty  thousand  a  year  and  of  no  particularly  prominent 
family  (his  father  had  been  a  cloth-merchant  in  Philadelphia), 
he  must  know  only  the  Tightest  kind  of  right  people,  else 
could  never  take  the  position  he  coveted.  He  wanted  to  lead 
cotillions  and  be  the  favorite  of  the  fair,  to  be  quoted  for 
his  witty  sayings  and  good  taste  and  otherwise  to  be  a  leading 
light  familiar  to  all  newspaper  readers. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  173 

To  achieve  all  this,  he  had  come  up  to  New  York  from 
his  native  town  a  few  years  earlier  and  had  eaten  through 
any  quantity  of  humble  pie  into  a  good  club.  To  be  seen 
about  with  favorites  of  fortune,  he  willingly  performed  for 
them  such  services  as  rushing  ahead  to  restaurants  to  engage 
tables,  waiting  at  stage  doors  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
the  girls  they  desired  to  meet;  otherwise  played  the  courtier 
and  sycophant,  in  return  for  which  he  was  invited  to  week 
ends  at  country  places  and  on  yachting  trips,  where  he  met 
the  sort  of  women  he  wished  to  know. 

It  is  on  such  retainers  that  the  brunt  of  amusement  falls 
should  the  party  become  dull:  they  must  know  the  latest 
laughs,  the  newest  novelty,  must  be  able  to  advise  on  frocks 
or  design  masquerade  costumes,  select  wallpaper  and  draperies 
for  a  new  room,  hunt  through  the  antique  shops  for  period 
furniture,  think  of  striking  oddities  for  Mrs.  Van  Susan's 
cotillion  favors.  And,  particularly,  they  must  be  careful  not 
to  get  into  a  scandal  with  the  wrong  people.  A  duke  may 
walk  arm  in  arm  with  a  prizefighter  or  be  seen  publicly  with 
a  chorus  girl;  but  for  one  of  Mr.  Moncure's  sort  either  feat 
would  be  fatal.  Leaders  of  society  enjoy  the  sensation  of 
holding  in  their  hands  the  lives  of  their  subjects.  Like  the 
Roman  populace,  they  relish  the  knowledge  that  to  destroy 
a  life  they  have  only  to  turn  down  their  thumbs. 

Hence  Mr.  Moncure  was  not  present  at  the  opening  of 
the  new  act  either  out  of  town  or  in  it. 


V 

To  do  him  all  justice,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he  played 
a  large  part  in  levitating  Miss  Riley.  Aside  from  the  genesis : 
that  she  would  never  have  attempted  to  rise  had  she  not 
met  him;  he  had  enabled  the  team  to  dress  in  an  entirely 


174  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

different  manner  from  any  other  team  then  performing:  and 
moreover,  had  communicated  two  small  secrets  almost  en- 
tirely confined  to  men  of  good  clubs — the  lack  of  which  spoils 
the  effect  of  the  smartest  dress  clothes :  teaching  Dunkerley 
how  to  accomplish  a  smart  dress  necktie  by  tying  only  one  end 
and  concealing  the  other,  showing  him  how  much  more  effective 
is  a  silk  hat  when  worn  to  show  the  forehead  and  cover  the 
back  of  the  head  .  .  . 

But  his  best  bit  of  advice,  that  which  was  to  assist  Rosa 
so  materially  in  her  advance,  was  given  for  a  selfish  reason. 
He  had  not  then  had  Billy  Ransome's  invitation  to  a  Mediter- 
ranean yachting  cruise,  and  wanted  to  protect  himself  should 
her  introduction  to  any  prowling  men  friends  become  un- 
avoidable. An  intrigue  with  a  foreign  artiste  was  usual 
enough  to  pass  unremarked;  whereas  one  with  a  child  of 
the  Bowery  would  be  too  good  a  story  to  keep  and  would 
eventually  reach  the  wrong  ears.  A  foreign  accent  would 
explain  that  regrettable  tendency  of  Rosa's  to  delete  diph- 
thongs in  favor  of  single  consonants,  would  provide  for 
otherwise  fatal  double  negatives  and  any  number  of  similar 
solecisms.  But  -what  foreign  accent  ?  Not  French :  too  many 
spoke  it.  Spanish  was  better.  If  only  she  were  dancing 
Spanish  dances! 

It  was  then  he  remembered  to  have  seen  this  very  turkey 
trot  danced  to  a  sort  of  Spanish  music.  Paris — the  Abbaye 
— the  Tango  Argentine — the  very  thing!  He  had  hurried 
to  suggest  it  to  Dunkerley;  who  was  sufficiently  the  good 
showman  to  be  impressed. 

"Tango  Ar-gen-ti-no,"  he  repeated,  fascinated.  "Some 
name!  That's  a  great  idea!  I'll  change  the  music  right 
away — there's  a  lot  of  Spanish  'rags.'  Can  you  give  me  an 
idea  of  the  tempo ?"  And  then  as  Moncure  hummed:  "I 
see — sort  of  a  draggety  rag.  That  slow  stuff '11  make  it  all  the 
better  for  a  whirlwind  finish.  Great — great  stuff.  .  .  .  But 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  175 

I  don't  like  that  name  you've  got  for  her.  Can't  you  think 
of  another?"  .  .  . 

Eventually  they  settled  on  La  Zoe:  it  was  not  quite  Span- 
ish, just  right  for  an  Argentine  corruption,  they  thought. 
"Just  the  right  kind  of  familiar  sound,  too,"  Dunkerley  agreed 
triumphantly.  "People'll  think  they've  heard  it  before.  It's 
something  like  somebody's — " 

"La  Loie?"    Moncure  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Sure,"  said  Dunkerley,  "La  Lo-ey,  La  Zo-ey — there  you 
are!  The  public  never  remembers  much  nearer  than  that 
after  a  few  years." 

Which  proved  to  be  correct.  It  tricked  even  the  agent, 
who,  on  the  strength  of  Dunkerley's  former  success  in  picking 
the  now  well  known  Ned  McHugh,  had  secured  for  them 
a  try-out  in  an  obscure  Jersey  town.  "La  Zoey,"  he  had 
muttered;  "you  will  have  to  change  that,  Bo.  There's  one 
knocking  around  somewhere  already."  And  then  when  Dun- 
kerley had  explained :  "Good  business,"  he  laughed,  very 
well  pleased.  Such  impressions  properly  handled  meant  extra 
salary,  and  he  was  again  to  draw  up  a  five-year  contract  and 
take  ten  per  cent.  "Tell  you  what,  though,"  he  added:  "tie 
a  can  to  that  Dunkerley  part  of  it:  La  Zoey  and  Dunkerley 
don't  fit.  Play  up  the  'Zoey'  big  and  black,  and  put  a  line 
under  it:  'Assisted  by  M.  Dunkerley' — M.  meaning  Monseer. 
That's  what  those  classy  foreign  acts  are  doing.  And,  say, 
I  hope  you  got  an  iron-bound  contract  with  her:  these  dames 
are  worse'n  actors." 

"Say,"  returned  Dunkerley  scornfully,  "she  couldn't  take 
an  engagement  in  heaven  without  me.  She  can't  even  get 
married  and  retire.  She's  got  to  go  right  on  dancing  even 
if  she  married  Rockefeller — unless  her  husband  buys  me  off. 
If  she  quits  me,  I  can  sic  the  law  on  her  and  take  away 
every  nickel  she's  got.  I  paid  a  lawyer  twenty-five  to  draw 
up  that  contract ;  and  an  eel  couldn't  squirm  out  of  it." 


176  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"Too  bad  you  didn't  think  of  that  with  Ned  McHugh," 
commented  the  agent.  "He's  gone  over  to  Abrahams  at  three 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

Dunkerley  shook  his  head.  "I'm  going  to  put  him  in 
my  prayers,"  he  replied.  "This  girl's  worth  a  dozen  of  Ed. 
E.  McCue.  Watch  our  smoke — you'll  see." 


VI 

MR.  FIGBAUM  did  see,  very  much  to  his  profit.  To  him 
must  be  granted  some  of  the  credit  due  La  Zoe's  success; 
for,  before  bringing  them  to  New  York,  he  had  the  fore- 
sight to  have  the  act  booked  through  a  series  of  minor  towns ; 
where  Miss  Riley  lost  her  nervousness  at  the  sight  of  audi- 
ences ;  where  Dunkerley,  good  showman  that  he  was,  "speeded 
it  up"  until  the  entire  twenty  minutes  seemed  a  series  of 
whirls  and  gyrations  so  varied  as  to  give  audiences  no  time 
to  grow  weary. 

The  number  of  "calls"  increased  night  by  night.  Closing 
night  on  the  road,  he  was  compelled  to  make  a  speech  for 
her,  in  which  she  deplored  her  lack  of  English  to  respond 
adequately  to  their  gratifying  appreciation.  It  was  wonderful 
for  one  who  had  been  so  great  a  favorite  on  her  native  heath 
to  meet  with  similar  affection  among  strangers — but  she  would 
not  call  them  strangers  now:  hereafter  this  would  be  a  second 
home  to  her.  .  .  .  The  agent,  out  in  front,  decided  this  to 
be  a  master  stroke;  "keep  it  in."  On  their  New  York  open- 
ing, he  would  have  a  band  of  iron-handed  ushers  insist  upon 
a  speech.  It  was  good  for  an  extra  paragraph  in  all  the 
papers. 

As  it  turned  out,  however,  the  ushers  were  not  needed. 
New  York  audiences  always  applaud  a  foreign  artiste  on 
principle.  Even  though  bored  with  the  act,  they  fear  they 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  177 

have  missed  some  subtle  merit  a  lack  of  appreciation  of 
which  will  loudly  proclaim  their  ignorance.  And  when  actu- 
ally pleased,  the  thought  that  their  taste  is  up  to  the  standard 
of  more  artistic  countries  is  so  gratifying  that  their  applause 
is  thunderous. 

And,  that  a  male  dancer  might  look  like  a  gentleman :  that 
he  and  his  female  partner  might  perform  difficult  gyrations 
dressed  as  though  for  the  Opera,  that  they  danced  to  rag- 
time music — hitherto  associated  only  with  buck  and  wing  and 
cakewalk  teams,  music  that  the  audience  could  whistle  and 
understand:  these  were  anomalies.  Add  to  this  the  effect  of 
"class"  produced  by  a  pair  of  monogramed  velvet  curtains 
drawn  aside  by  a  footman  in  black  plush  livery,  powdered 
wig,  white  silk  stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  disclosing  a 
stage  draped  a  la  Reinhardt  with  the  softest  of  colorless 
hangings  which  the  calcium  caused  to  assume  a  bewildering 
succession  of  colors — and  you  will  have  some  idea  of  the 
novelty  of  La  Zoe's  effect  upon  people  generally  unused  to 
artistic  effort. 

In  the  center  of  it  all  bloomed  the  South  American  Tiger 
Lily — as  the  advertisements  read — the  lithe  young  savage  who 
danced  first  the  "Tiger  Tango"  in  her  "creation"  of  black 
and  yellow,  second  the  "Forest  Tango"  in  her  "falling  leaves" 
costume  and  in  a  rain  of  rainbow  light  from  the  calcium,  an 
autumn  rainbow  of  dusky  reds  and  dim  yellows.  Her  final 
appearance,  in  a  blaze  of  whites  and  ambers,  was  in  a  Pier- 
rette's blouse  of  yellow,  with  black  dots,  tights  to  her  waist, 
one  silk-stockinged  leg  yellow,  one  black,  each  adorned  with 
a  jeweled  garter,  in  one  of  which  was  thrust  a  gleaming 
cross-hilted  dagger;  and  they  closed  the  act  with  an  Apache 
turkey  trot.  There  was  little  breath  left  in  Dunkerley  to 
make  his  speech. 


178  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


VII 

EVEN  when  a  writer  confines  himself  strictly  to  history, 
there  are  dissatisfied  carping  incompetents  who  complain  that 
stories  of  the  stage  are  not  gloomy  enough :  the  heroine  always 
achieves  success — "so  different  from  real  life."  ...  A  de- 
ceiving half-truth  this,  worse  than  a  lie.  Most  of  the  people 
worth  writing  about  do  achieve  success,  their  kind  of  success, 
artistic,  financial — rarely  both,  'tis  true.  Every  week  the 
serious  journals  or  the  penny  press  promote  from  obscurity 
some  now  aspirant.  Many  with  names  unfamiliar  to  the 
public  succeed  in  winning  the  praise  of  certain  circles — the 
only  kind  they  covet.  People  of  genius,  talent  or  striking 
personalities  seldom  remain  unknown  for  long.  Au  contraire, 
many  achieve  renown  who  have  only  brazen  effrontery  or 
good  luck. 

To  write  of  failures  is  to  write  dull  stuff.  Only  their 
self-conceit  warrants  their  bad  humor  with  a  world  that  will 
have  none  of  them.  History  is  the  record  of  the  unusual: 
had  none  of  us  been  above  the  average,  we  would  still  be 
living  in  trees.  The  monkeys  have  the  only  perfect  democracy. 

As  for  success  on  the  stage,  that  is  the  easiest  of  all. 
We  would  rather  that  you  engaged  in  conversation  the  average 
theatrical  celebrity  than  that  we  paused  to  prove  this.  Squaring 
the  square,  pointing  the  pyramid  or  rounding  the  circle  is  work 
for  sapient  dullards  such  as,  say,  professors  of  dramatic 
literature.  We  ourselves  have  Rosa  Riley's  history  to  com- 
plete— and  are  at  a  critical  moment  in  her  career. 

In  the  midst  of  her  first  night  success,  she  was  silent, 
sullen,  obdurate.  Dunkerley  with  difficulty  kept  from  her 
dressing-room  other  agents,  representatives  of  booking  offices 
and  theatrical  firms,  reporters  for  the  professional  publica- 
tions; telling  tales  of  overstrained  temperament,  shattered 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  179 

nerves,  syncope,  a  physician  in  attendance.  His  agent  took 
charge  of  the  business  men ;  Dunkerley  satisfied  the  reporters 
— it  being  a  well-known  fact  that  in  the  average  theatrical 
journal  any  story  is  true  if  backed  up  by  sufficient  paid  ad- 
vertising. 

Rid  of  everyone  but  the  agent,  Dunkerley  requested  La 
Zoe  be  left  to  him.  "Don't  worry  about  it,"  he  said  com- 
posedly, referring  to  a  recent  exhibition  of  wrath  on  her 
part.  "If  I'd  had  St.  Peter  harnessed  up  the  way  I've  got 
Riley,  there'd  be  no  Catholic  religion."  The  agent  went, 
relieved  of  worry :  any  extended  acquaintance  with  Dunkerley 
gave  people  considerable  reliance  on  his  word. 

He  had  locked  Rosa's  dressing-room  door  in  case  she 
should  be  dressed  before  him.  When  she  began  to  pound 
on  it,  he  joined  her,  ready  for  the  street.  Disregarding  her 
angry  protests,  he  forced  himself  into  her  cab.  She  drove; 
to  Mr.  Moncure's  address;  and,  careless  of  precedents  re- 
garding janitors,  awoke  the  Cerberus  of  that  series  of  smart 
bachelor  apartments.  He  proved  to  be  a  mild,  mutton- 
chopped  Englishman  of  the  family-servant  class;  hence  he 
displayed  no  resentment  at  anything  for  which  he  was  paid. 
If  she  was  a  Miss  Riley,  Air.  Moncure  had  left  a  note,  yes, 
miss.  He  couldn't  reely  say,  miss,  where  he'd  gone ;  no  doubt 
he  would  communicate.  And,  it  being  a  cold  night  and  he 
in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  would  she  be  good  enough  to  excuse 
him — meanwhile,  with  the  utmost  deference,  closing  the  door. 

The  opened  note  fell  from  Rosa's  hand.  Dunkerley  struck 
a  second  match.  Mr.  Moncure  wrote  to  say  that  by  the  time 
this  reached  her  he  would  be  off  the  Azores.  He  had  thought 
it  all  out  and  decided  that  was  best  for  both.  She  was  unhappy 
endeavoring  to  be  what  she  was  not:  he  had  seen  that,  and 
it  made  him  unhappy,  too.  So,  much  as  he  wanted  her,  he 
was  afraid  nature  had  put  too  many  obstacles  in  the  way  of 


180  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

their — er — friendship.  He  could  never  marry  her — it  was 
best  to  be  frank.  .  .  . 

"I  never  wanted  him  to  marry  me,"  she  was  sobbing 
while  Dunkerley  read  all  this — as  caddish  a  note  as  male  ever 
penned  female.  Not  that  Rosa  saw  it  that  way.  From  half 
an  hour  of  her  incoherence,  Dunkerley  gathered  that  Moncure 
had  acted  like  a  real  gentleman.  Accustomed  to  the  society 
of  superior  women,  her  coarse  speech,  vulgar  manners,  lack 
of  education  and  reasonable  conversation  had  been  too  much 
for  a  super-sensitive  soul.  "I  g-g-guess  he  c-c-couldn't 
st-st-stand  me  any  longer.  And  I  was  tr-tryin'  s-s-so  hard 
t-to  be  worthy  of  h-h-him,  wa-wa-wasn't  I,  Bill?"  She  called 
Dunkerley  "Bill"  for  some  unknown  reason :  probably  because 
she  had  known  more  "Bills"  than  any  other  males.  .  .  .  He 
had  the  man  drive  twice  through  Central  Park  before  she 
calmed  down  and  announced  her  intention  of  quitting  the 
stage. 

It  wasn't  no  use,  she  said  (to  escape  her  phonetics  it  is 
best  partly  to  translate)  ;  she  couldn't  go  on.  Bill  knew  she 
wouldn't  have  began  only  for  him,  and  now  he'd  beat  it, 
she  didn't  see  no  reason  for  being  unhappy.  She  would  go 
where  her  friends  wasn't  ashamed  of  her  and  she  didn't  have 
to  speak  with  no  foreign  accent  and  pretend  not  to  under- 
stand plain  American.  Did  he  (Bill)  think  that  she  was  going 
to  be  cooped  up  in  hotel  rooms  all  her  life  and  not  talk 
natural  to  nobody  but  him  ?  She  wasn't,  then !  She'd  like 
to  see  herself.  Money?  What  good  was  money  if  you  didn't 
have  friends  to  spend  it  on  or  with — if  you  even  couldn't 
go  out  and  have  a  drink  and  a  dance  for  fear  you'd  make 
a  break?  ....  She  could  make  plenty  of  money  anyhow. 
Jail?  What  was  the  difference  between  jail  and  being  cooped 
up  in  a  hotel  room?  You  had  people  to  talk  to  in  jail  anyway 
— the  kind  of  people  you  was  used  to.  ...  It  didn't  make 
no  difference  how  much  he  talked,  she  wasn't  going  to  do  it. 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  181 

She'd  finish  the  week  and  that  was  all.  Contract  ?  Pooh-pooh 
for  the  contract.  Let  him  take  all  she'd  made — she  didn't 
care.  .  .  .  And  the  sobbing  began  afresh. 

Dunkerley  waited  for  this  to  subside  before  playing  his 
ace.  Then  he  told  her,  quietly,  that  she  would  not  only  finish 
the  week  but  the  month  and  the  year  besides.  Then,  if  she 
still  insisted,  she  could  go;  but  he  knew  by  that  time  she'd 
have  come  to  her  senses.  .  .  .  Which  effectually  banished  all 
feminine  weakness  and  roused  her  old  belligerency.  Dun- 
kerley quieted  her  by  strong  hands  on  her  wrists. 

"Now  you  listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "I've  waited  half  my 
life  for  a  chance  like  this.  Think  I'm  going  to  be  wept  out 
of  it  by  a  damn'-fool  kid?  If  it  wasn't  for  your  own  good, 
I  wouldn't  say  a  word.  But  the  way  it  is,  if  you  make  one 
break,  I'll  have  you  jammed  into  the  Bedford  Home  to-mor- 
row, and  you'll  do  three  years  as  an  incorrigible.  You're 
under  eighteen,  ain't  you?  Your  parents  are  dead,  and  it 
won't  be  hard  to  prove  you  were  a  pickpocket.  Now  you 
mind  what  I  say.  I  mean  it." 

For  the  second  time  in  her  life,  Rosa  Riley  thrilled  at  the 
sight  of  a  man's  eyes  looking  into  hers.  But  Dunkerley  was 
not  thinking  of  thrilling  her,  but  of  those  forty  weeks  on  the 
P.  and  K.  circuit.  Anyhow,  had  the  thrill  been  compared 
to  that  other  one  inspired  by  Moncure,  she  would  have  in- 
dignantly resented  the  comparison;  and  would  have  been 
incredulous  if  informed  that  a  woman's  bitter  hatred  for  a 
man  is  but  a  degree  removed  from  fierce  affection. 


VIII 

SHE  became,  thereafter,  a  woman  with  a  secret  sorrow 
plus  a  grievance.  And  as  a  woman,  when  she  has  sustained 
any  grievous  hurt  from  a  man,  delights  in  making  other  men 


182  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

miserable,  she  began  to  take  positive  pleasure  in  the  role  of 
the  cold  and  distant  foreigner.  During  their  travels  through- 
out the  country,  she  enjoyed  the  sight  of  men  in  front  smitten 
by  her  charms  less  than  passing  them  coldly  by  at  the  stage 
door.  She  loved  to  seem  all  feminine  softness  in  hotel  lobbies 
and  dining-rooms;  but  at  an  approach  "drew  herself  up 
proudly  with  flashing  eyes."  Or,  else,  when  Dunkerley  could 
not  avoid  introductions — mostly  in  Pullmans — she  pretended 
to  know  so  little  English  as  not  to  understand  even  so  simple 
a  request  as  her  company  at  dinner,  looking  all  the  more 
puzzled  as  they  grew  more  ardent,  returning  the  most  willful 
answers  possible — the  sort  to  make  their  professions  of  ad- 
miration sound  absurd.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  derive  the  utmost 
satisfaction  in  driving  them  to  despair — for  few  elderly  men 
or  youngsters  could  look  on  her  beauty  unmoved  and,  after 
they  had  seen  her  dance,  she  seemed  to  inspire  some  of  them 
with  sudden  madness.  Several  times  college  boys  followed 
her  from  one  town  to  another.  Once  it  was  an  elderly  and 
respectable  widower  with  much  money  and  many  children, 
whom  she  pretended  to  misunderstand  through  three  weeks 
of  one-night  stands,  and  finally  left  swearing  to  blow  out  his 
brains — in  which  he  unduly  flattered  himself.  .  .  . 

A  little  of  this,  however,  soon  served  to  appease  her  in- 
dignation against  men  in  general,  and  she  adopted  a  new  pose ; 
explaining  her  gentle  melancholy  to  her  admirers  with  any 
preposterous  story  that  happened  to  come  into  her  head — ; 
the  sudden  death  of  a 'dearly  loved  husband,  parent,  sister 
or  child,  always  by  some  violent  means,  a  railway  accident, 
an  earthquake,  a  fire.  These  tragedies  narrated  in  broken 
English,  supplemented  by  sobs,  were  so  infinitely  pathetic  that 
they  checked  the  most  ardent  overtures.  But  this  was  not 
enough  to  divert  her  during  the  long  days  of  life  in  strange 
cities,  and  she  surprised  Dunkerley  one  day  by  engaging  him 
•.•in  her  first  friendly  conversation  since  the  night  of  the 


m 

LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  183 

•  * 

catastrophe.  More  than  ever  was  he  delighted,  for,  though 
he  had  impressed  &n  her  the  necessity  for  reading  and  study 
if  she  was  ever  to  discard  her  pretense  of  foreign  speech  off 
the  stage,  she  had  studiously  and  insultingly  returned  all  the 
books  he  bought  for  her. 

"I  want  some  books,  Bill.  No,  not  to  study,"  she  added 
hastily.  "Stories  to  read.  About  society — the  real  thing  with 
dooks  an'  nearls  and  swell  dames.  I  want  to  know  how 
they  talk  an'  nact  and  what  all  they  do.  A  big  bunch  that'll 
last  till  this  damn'  trip's  over.  You  only  got  six  more  months, 
Bill,"  she  reminded  him  maliciously.  She  had  taken  a  real 
.  *  pleasure,  ever  since  that  night,  in  marking  off  each  day  of 
the  year ;  on  leaving  him  each  night,  never  failing  to  remind 
him  of  his  promise  that  she  was  another  twenty-four  hours 
nearer  her  release  from  bondage.  "Don't  forget.  A  year 
was  all  I  was  to  serve,"  she  had  said  over  a  hundred  times. 
And  once  he  had  been  unwise  enough  to  reply:  "You  talk 
as  if  you  were  in  jail !"  What  answer  he  got  must  be  suffi- 
ciently obvious. 

But  now  she  spoke  graciously  and  wanted  books,  and  next 
morning  he  spent  all  the  hours  up  to  matinee  time  in  ques- 
tioning salesmen  and  selecting  titles.  Rosa  had  to  buy  a 
small  cabin  trunk  to  contain  them :  he  had  cornered  the 
market  in  society  fiction,  English,  American  and  Continental. 
From  that  time  on  she  was  seldom  seen  without  a  volume  in 
hand;  and  one  day  she  gave  a  surprisingly  good  imitation  of 
an  English  character  in  one  of  the  plays  they  had  seen — she 
had  fallen  into  his  habit  of  hurrying  out  of  her  make-up  in 
order  to  see  the  last  acts  of  plays. 

His  applause  at  her  portrayal  gratified  her;  and  she  took 
to  reading  speeches  from  her  books  aloud  to  him — almost 
always  they  were  of  some  superwomen,  skilled  in  the  art  of 
intellectual  conversation  that  would  not  have  discredited  a 
De  Stael,  or  else  they  had  Whistlerian  repartee  at  their  tongue 


»»  * 

184  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

tips.  She  was  either  a  born  mimic,  or  else  had  developed 
the  faculty  as  so  many  street  children  do;  and  now  that  it 
occurred  to  her  to  put  the  speaking  of  good  English  on  the 
footing  of  an  imitation,  like  her  South  American  broken 
English,  she  began  to  learn  words  and  inflections  rapidly. 
But  so  much  did  she  regard  all  this  as  mere  impersonation, 
she  was  unconscious  that  to  give  Dunkerley  the  full  benefit 
of  the  contrast,  she  must  force  herself  to  recall  certain  old 
Bowery  tricks  of  speech.  Never  did  she  imagine  seriously 
that  it  was  possible  for  her  to  pass  even  as  one  who  dwelt 
near  Moncure's  borderline. 

"The  more  I  read  the  more  I  realize  how  right  he  was, 
Bill.  I  don't  even  see  now  how  he  put  up  with  me  for  a 
few  weeks.  Just  listen  to  this" — she  read  some  brilliant 
worldly  dialogue  between  two  women  of  the  type.  "To  think 
of  me  ever  thinking  7  could  talk  like  them !  And  there  was 
a  piece  in  this  other  book — I  marked  it  for  you  to  explain 
to  me."  .  .  .  She  found  the  annotation  and  gave  the  text : 
the  conversation  of  a  girl  and  a  man  upon  some  esoteric 
subject,  certain  symbolistic  parts  of  which  Dunkerley  failed 
to  make  clear.  "You  see — even  you're  not  wise  to  it.  And 
you've  got  an  education.  What  a  chance  for  me!"  She  re- 
lapsed into  a  deep  and  impenetrable  gloom. 


IX 


SOMETIMES,  when  he  left  her  for  the  night  and  she  was 
not  sleepy  and  was  tired  of  reading,  she  thought  it  would  have 
been  pleasant  if  he  could  have  remained  and  talked  to  her. 
And  on  cold  Northern  nights  when  she  must  plunge  her 
thinly  clad  young  body  between  cold  linen  sheets — Dunkerley 
insisting  on  bedroom  windows  being  open  for  her  health's 
sake — she  would  shrink  from  going  to  bed  at  all,  and  when 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  185 

she  finally  did  go  would  double  up  in  a  mouselike  knot,  in 
an  effort  to  keep  herself  warm,  and  consider  how  lonely  her 
life  was.  Then  she  would  force  herself  to  think  sadly  of 
her  faithless  Adonis,  her  fashionable  Aramis,  her  fascinating 
Eugene  Wrayburn;  would  send  herself  to  sleep  in  exquisite 
misery,  picturing  him  surrounded  and  adored  by  the  incom- 
parable females  of  her  novels.  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  beginning  to 
annoy  her  to  a  degree  that  Dunkerley  seemed  to  be  unaffected 
by  her  charms.  Although  his  case  was  hopeless,  she  wanted 
him  to  know  that  it  was  hopeless ;  for  him  to  be  heart-whole 
and  odiously  self-satisfied  was  annoying  to  one  who  was  pining 
away.  True,  she  showed  no  outward  signs  of  the  inward 
cancer;  but,  she  would  have  told  you,  a  vioman  would  under- 
stand .  .  . 

Dunkerley  realized  that  she  still  hugged  to  her  thoughts 
of  Moncure;  so  mastered  those  hot  waves  of  passion  that 
at  times  possessed  him  as  suddenly  as  the  one  that  had  swept 
the  blood  into  his  eyes  at  first  sight  of  her.  At  first,  it  had 
not  been  necessary  to  guard  himself:  she  plainly  showed  she 
considered  him  obnoxious;  but  when  she  became  companion- 
able he  was  quick  to  formulate  rules  to  protect  his  business 
interests,  rules  to  keep  him  always  the  partner,  never  the 
man.  Hence  he  always  quitted  her  room  before  she  began 
to  yawn,  avoided  her  until  she  sent  for  him,  booked  their  Pull- 
man berths  far  apart,  never  suggested  they  should  patronize 
the  same  hotel  nor  have  a  single  meal  together — until  in  time, 
as  such  things  do,  it  became  a  game  with  him:  a  game  to 
which  he  continually  contributed  new  rules  and  invented  new 
moves ;  at  which  he  became  so  expert  that  he  forgot  it  was  a 
game  at  all. 

There  are  many  men  for  whom  beautiful  women  learn  to 
care,  who,  if  they  had  met  them  only  casually,  would  have 
stirred  in  them  no  emotion  whatever.  But  let  any  masterful 
man,  competent  and  not  unattractive,  be  the  continual  com- 


186  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

panion  of  a  beauty  and  fail  to  be  moved  to  infatuation,  and 
she  becomes  vexed  and  curious:  such  indifference  is  a  tacit 
accusation  of  failing  fascinations;  and,  if  she  be  heart-whole 
in  putting  forward  additional  efforts  to  snare  this  wary  one, 
will  often  fall  in  her  own  trap.  Rosa  soon  came  to  the  point 
where  Dunkerley's  expertness  in  the  game  annoyed  her  be- 
yond measure.  Besides,  she  was  lonely,  and  loneliness  exag- 
gerates the  virtues  of  companionship.  Moreover,  playing  two 
performances  a  day,  she  had  no  chance  to  know  any  other 
man  well,  so  began  to  find  estimable  and  lovable  qualities 
in  Dunkerley.  She  did  not  dare  confess  this  even  in  secret: 
that  would  be  to  rob  herself  of  some  of  the  sad  satisfaction 
of  one  who  has  loved  and  lost  and  never  again  can  love  at 
all.  She  was  conscious  only  of  a  vague  irritation  at  his 
callous  nature;  and  decided,  to  soothe  her  wounded  pride, 
that  such  men  as  he  were  too  commonplace  to  feel  strong 
emotion.  "It's  too  bad,"  she  told  herself  candidly,  "because 
he  really  could  make  some  woman  happy."  Which  is  a  de- 
cided concession  for  a  woman:  it  is  a  habit  of  the  sex  to  be 
astounded  at  any  infatuation  for  males  who  do  not  suit  their 
own  notions  of  what  males  should  be. 

Then  one  spring  day,  they  were  summoned  back  to  New 
York.  One  of  a  pair  of  tango  dancers  had  broken  her  ankle, 
and  the  moguls  of  the  P.  and  K.  circuit  were  heavily  interested 
in  a  musical  revue  in  which  the  appearance  of  such  a  pair 
was  necessary  to  the  success  of  a  certain  scene.  And  as  they 
had  been  seen  in  New  York  in  a  "family  house"  and  for  only 
two  weeks  at  that — having  then  been  sent  on  tour  because 
they  conflicted  with  better-known  bookings,  the  act  was  new 
to  "smart"  audiences;  who  were  more  frankly  surprised  than 
those  of  vaudeville  at  the  sight  of  a  dancing  team  in  clothes 
and  frocks  that  they  themselves  would  have  been  glad  to 
wear.  The  novelty  of  the  costuming  of  La  Zoe  and  her 
partner  amply  made  up  for  the  fact  that  their  dances  were 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  187 

no  longer  new — every  known  variation  of  the  tango  and 
turkey  trot  having  been  recently  shown.  The  first  night  ap- 
plause continued  until  they  could  only  bow — a  rare  happening 
before  blase  New  York  audiences ;  and,  next  day,  the  "critics" 
had  their  usual  say  concerning  "poetry  of  motion"  in  explana- 
tion. 

The  real  explanation  was  that,  at  last,  there  had  beert 
found  an  amusement  sufficiently  primitive  and  requiring  little 
enough  thought  to  appeal  to  a  whole  cityful  of  mental 
dwarfs;  whose  lack  of  any  enthusiasm  for  opera  or  music 
generally,  or  serious  interest  in  the  theater,  or  the  ability  to 
amuse  themselves  with  conversation  (even  if  they  could  make 
it)  concerning  those  topics  which  absorb  intelligent  people 
in  other  countries,  had  left  a  yawning  gap  of  boredom.  At 
last  the  idle  overdressed  women  of  all  classes  had  something 
which  would  divert  them,  yet  abet  their  man-hunting — their 
only  congenial  occupation;  heightening  their  lure  by  giving 
men  the  sight  of  sensuous  movements  and  by  allowing  them 
the  intoxication  of  a  closer  physical  contact  that,  yet,  sur- 
rendered nothing. 

So  that,  soon  after  the  show  opened,  Dunkerley  was  in- 
formed by  the  house-manager  of  certain  queries  as  to  whether 
La  Zoe  and  her  partner  would  care  to  impart  instruction  in 
the  tango  and  the  turkey  trot.  If  so,  the  management  would 
be  only  too  pleased  to  tender  the  use  of  the  tea-room  for  the 
lessons. 

"Some  'ad,'  "  said  the  press  agent.  "We'll  have  Sunday 
stories  all  over  the  country,  with  flashes  of  you  and  the  little 
lady  and  all  these  society  skirts  trotting  in  our  own  little 
theater.  Some  'ad'  all  right.  Some  regular  money  for  you, 
too." 


188  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


X 

THE  lessons  had  been  in  progress  for  a  week  or  more 
before  Rosa  put  in  an  appearance.  Dunkerley  told  her  every 
night  of  a  new  social  favorite  who  had  joined  the  class.  He 
entreated  her  to  take  some  of  the  work  off  his  hands.  But 
besides  hating  the  women  whom  she  believed  to  have  separated 
her  from  Moncure,  she  was  afraid  of  them.  With  their 
sparkling  wit  and  polished  manners,  their  vast  knowledge  of 
matters  artistic,  musical,  literary,  international,  historical — 
"and  everything,"  as  she  put  it — she  feared  that  their  simplest 
inquiries,  even  their  usual  choice  in  words,  would  put  her 
at  so  decided  a  disadvantage  that  her  discomfiture  would  be 
damnable.  Might  awaken  suspicion,  too,  in  such  brilliant 
minds,  as  to  that  South  American  derivation  now  so  well 
established.  Dunkerley  must  remember  she  had  met  nobody 
but  plain  people  so  far.  These  women  would  see  through 
her  pitiful  pretense.  "I  don't  want  half  the  money,"  she 
shrieked  a  dozen  times.  "You  teach  'em:  you  take  it.  It's 
yours.  Stop  calling  it  ours." 

But  when  the  first  week  had  yielded  more  than  two  hun- 
dred dollars  in  fees,  Dunkerley  saw  that  Rosa  was  impressed. 
"I  tell  you  what,"  he  said:  "you've  got  these  women  rated 
too  high,  Zoey.  I  wish  you'd  come  down  and  look  'em  over 
before  you  make  me  hire  somebody  to  help  me.  Anyhow, 
I'd  lose  a  lot  of  'em  if  I  did.  I've  been  stalling  'em  along, 
saying  you  weren't  well.  They  expect  you  every  day.  I 
don't  know  how  they'll  take  it  if  I  have  to  tell  'em  you  won't 
come  at  all.  They  might  all  quit  me  for  that  fellow  who 
dances  at  Sydenham's.  What's  got  you  scared  ?  Your  foreign 
accent  is  immense.  They'll  never  tumble."  Then  to  her 
objection:  "Aw — those  books  are  the  bunk!" 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  189 

But  Rosa  had  all  the  respect  of  the  ignorant  for  the 
printed  word.  It  is  very  doubtful  if  she  would  have  gone 
at  all  had  not  Dunkerley  told  her  the  entrance  to  the  tea-room 
was  draped  with  heavy  portieres  and  she  might  stand  outside 
behind  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  promenade — which  was  dark 
— there  observing  the  quality  of  his  pupils  without  her 
presence  being  known  to  them.  "You  might  do  that  before 
you  throw  down  about  fifteen  hundred  for  your  share — 
there'll  be  three  thousand  gross  if  they  keep  coming  until  the 
Newport  season  starts.  But  if  you  don't  show  up  .  .  ." 

His  deep  gloom  decided  her.  His  expert  assumption  of 
platonic  friendship  was  wearing  down  her  defenses.  She  had 
now  gone  so  far  as  to  concede  that  "if  it  wasn't  she  never 
could  love  anybody  again."  Now  that  he  was  surrounded 
by  the  fascinators  who  had  stolen  her  Adonis — Aramis,  her 
defects  would  be  more  noticeable  to  him:  she  must  make  up 
for  this  by  additional  good  behavior:  stubbornness  was  fatal 
to  friendship.  And  the  thought  of  her  loneliness,  if  she  lost 
him,  brought  sudden  tears.  Those  damned  women! 

Such  thoughts  drove  her  to  the  theater  one  spring  morn- 
ing, having  lingered  an  hour  or  more  before  her  mirror  making 
sure  her  toilet  showed  none  of  those  sartorial  solecisms  that 
gave  the  scornful  heroines  of  her  novels  such  chances  for 
amused  contempt  when  speaking  of  stage  women. 

She  drove  to  the  theater  in  a  taxi,  and  stole  past  the 
stage  doorkeeper  like  one  intending  dressing-room  burglary. 
The  curtain  was  down,  the  front  of  the  house  black.  She 
stumbled  twice,  but  the  soft  carpet  did  not  betray  her.  Then 
with  all  the  caution  of  a  mouse  in  a  strange  kitchen,  she 
approached  some  stray  gleams  of  light  and  the  sound  of 
piano-playing.  It  was  several  minutes  before  she  equipped 
herself  with  sufficient  nerve  to  peep. 

The  familiar  sight  of  turkey  trotting  greeted  her.    Dun- 


190  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

kerley  was  whirling  about  with  a  young  thing  in  violet  velour. 
Rosa  was  glad  to  note  that  society  women  had  legs  like  other 
people — these  had  never  been  mentioned  in  the  novels.  But  she 
was  somewhat  surprised  that  shocked  comment  did  not  arise 
on  all  sides  when,  doing  the  "dip,"  a  long  black  silken  stocking 
was  exposed  to  the  knee,  revealing  to  the  shocked  watcher 
a  habit  she  associated  only  with  such  as  her  former  friends: 
she  herself  had  long  ceased  to  carry  her  money  there.  And, 
as  the  couple  whirled  past  the  door,  she  began  to  wonder 
if  there  were  not  some  mistake,  if  some  chorus  girl  had  not 
slipped  in;  for  the  young  thing's  lips  were  daintily  painted, 
her  eyes  were  much  too  concentrically  framed  not  to  have 
had  the  assistance  of  a  second  soft  pencil. 

Rosa  shifted  the  gaze  to  the  others:  a  dozen  or  more 
debutantes,  older  girls,  one  matron.  All  had  employed  similar 
subterfuges  in  the  matter  of  complexion;  while  the  cheeks 
of  most  had  not  escaped  some  semi-liquid  paste,  well  enough 
rubbed  in  to  deceive  men,  maybe,  but  not  women.  Nor  did 
they  sit  in  those  conventional  and  dignified  attitudes  her  books 
had  led  her  to  expect :  the  majority  had  their  legs  crossed,  and, 
in  a  season  of  tight  skirts,  that  necessitated,  before  wearing, 
a  careful  inspection  of  silk  stockings  for  suspected  runs. 
No  wonder  they  had  not  been  shocked  when  those  young 
knees  had  come  into  evidence.  And,  although  it  is  true  the 
novels  had  made  some  shamefaced  mention  of  female  cigarette- 
smoking,  one  inferred  it  a  bit  of  daredeviltry  excused  by 
its  excessive  daintiness ;  but  here  were  old  hands  for  all  their 
young  faces.  Not  that  it  wasn't  worse  to  see  that  stout 
chaperon  with  a  thick  Egyptian  hanging  from  her  lower  lip. 

Rosa  was  suddenly  reminded  of  a  heavy  dissipated 
Spanish  woman  who  had  made  her  flattering  offers :  who  came 
late  with  some  of  her  girls.  True,  these  young  ladies  who 
sat  sprawling  along  the  cushioned  seats  were  slenderer,  wore 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  191 

simpler  clothes  and  fewer  colors;  but,  with  their  attitudes 
of  Oriental  indolence  and  careless  display  of  nether  limbs, 
the  cigarettes  drooping  from  the  fingers  of  several,  the  sensu- 
ous syncopated  tune  and  the  Barbary  Coast  dance,  the  scene 
seemed  very  similar  to  one  of  the  visits  of  the  Spanish  woman 
to  the  dance-hall.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  the  conversation  would  be  different,  however. 
Rosa  reproached  herself  for  allowing  her  envy  and  dislike 
to  make  so  ridiculous  a  comparison. 

And  then  the  man  at  the  piano  ceased  playing  at  Dunker- 
ley's  order. 

"You  see — like  this,"  he  added  to  the  young  thing  in 
violet,  and  began  gravely  to  go  through  certain  steps.  "Isn't 
she  the  baby  elephant?"  commented  another  young  thing  in 
garnet.  "Don't  you  think  trotting  is  too  deevy  for  words?" 
remarked  a  third.  "Don't  you  perfectly  adore  it,  Paula? 
Yesterday  we  trotted  at  Mrs.  Paletot's  tea,  and  at  the  Ogden- 
Trompers'  dinner-dance.  Anybody  who  didn't  trot  might 
just  as  well  die.  I  had  three  with  Oily  Case — " 

"Isn't  he  just  the  handsomest  thing  in  the  whole  world?" 
demanded  Paula  eagerly.  "I  could  just  leave  my  happy  home 
for  him  if  anybody  was  to  step  right  up  and  ask  you.  And 
aren't  you  just  crazy  about  the  way  he  dances?  Just  like  a 
perfectly  good  Annarovna!  Oh,  no;  that's  the  woman,  isn't 
it?  What's  the  man's  name?" 

"Mikhailowitch,  you  mean,  my  dear?"  asked  the  puffy 
chaperon  woman.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  rave,  oughtn't  I? 
But  give  me  a  good  Garden  show  every  time.  I've  been  four 
times  to  the  new  one.  Have  you  noticed  that  perfectly  good 
skunk-trimmed  seal  sacque  that  little  French  devil's  wearing 
in  the  Maxim's  scene?  Isn't  it  a  scandal  such  creatures 
should  beat  us  to  the  smartest  things?" 

"They  say  Oily  Case  has  one  of  those  persons  in  love  with 


192  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

hint' — that  other  dancing  woman — what's  her  name?  Two 
thousand  a  week,  my  dear.  Anyhow,  Molly  Legay  paid 
Madame  Ondit,  so  Oily  must  have  someone.  I  wonder  when 
Govvy  Legay  will  see  through  a  perfectly  good  pane  of 
glass?"  .  .  . 

The  young  thing  in  violet  velour,  whose  place  with  Dun- 
kerley  had  been  taken  by  another,  now  joined  them,  breathing 
exhaustedly :  "My  God !  Give  me  a  cigarette,  Lou.  What's 
that  about  Govvy  Legay?  He  got  me  in  a  corner  at  the 
Orrin's  conservatory  the  other  night  and  nearly  tore  the 
dress  off  my  back.  He's  just  a  low  brute."  "You  shouldn't 
meet  him  for  tea  in  one  of  Christophe's  private  rooms  then, 
my  dear,"  advised  an  even  younger  thing  who  had  an  aureole 
of^sunny  hair  and  wide-open  blue  eyes.  "That's  your  Orrin 
Conservatory !" 

"Don't  you  talk,  miss,"  returned  Mr.  Legay's  detractor 
significantly.  "How  could  anybody  know  who  was  in  a 
Christophe  room  unless  they  were  on  the  same  floor?  There's 
more  than  one  perfectly  good  private  room,  you  know."  .  .  . 

The  puffy  woman  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  sudden  chuck- 
ling. "Have  you  heard  the  latest  about  Jean  Gamier' 's  place  ?" 
she  asked.  "Well,  listen.  You  know  how  you  young  people 
will  slip  out  at  these  big  crushes?  And  get  back  only  in  time 
to  go  home  with  your  chaperons?"  There  was  a  chorus  of 
instant  denial.  "What  a  shocking  old  woman  you  are,  Mrs. 
Delehanty!"  said  the  girl  in  garnet.  At  the  accusation  of 
antiquity  the  puffy- faced  chaperon  pricked  up  her  ears  mali- 
ciously. "Who  was  in  a  rowdy  restaurant  with  a  man's  coat 
on  last  Christmas  Eve?"  she  inquired  of  Miss  Garnet.  "It's 
a  low-down  lie,"  muttered  the  accused  sulkily. 

"But  I  was  telling  you  about  Jean  Garnier's  restaurant. 
The  last  Canary  cotillion,  a  taxi  drove  up,  and  a  man  with 
a  waiter's  overcoat  and  a  two-dollar  derby,  both  borrowed, 


LADYBIRDS  IN  LUCK  193 

comes  running  up  the  stairs  and  rings  the  bell.  'I  can't  give 
you  a  private  room,  Mr.  So-and-So/  says  Gamier.  'You've 
got  to,  man,'  says  So-and-So.  'I've  got  one  of  the  debutantes 
in  that  taxi'  'What's  that?  says  that  disrespectful  old 
Gamier.  7've  got  one  of  the  debutantes  in  every  one  of 
my  rooms'"  .  .  . 

None  of  the  listeners  thought  it  wise  to  refrain  from 
laughing  loudly  lest  the  narrator's  little  suspicious  eyes  be 
turned  upon  them.  And  the  laugh  was  echoed  from  the 
promenade  outside.  But  it  was  not  at  the  story  but  at  the 
months  she  had  wasted  training  for  Master  Moncure.  In 
that  moment  Rosa  knew  subconsciously,  what  the  Chinese 
learned  ages  ago:  that  when  women  are  mere  creatures  for 
men's  physical  appetites,  social  position  makes  no  differqjfece; 
which  is  why  a  Chinese  noblewoman  marrying  a  coolie,  or 
a  coolie's  daughter  marrying  a  nobleman,  each  takes  her  hus- 
band's rank;  for  theirs  is  a  mere  change  of  conditions,  not 
of  character. 

So  Rosa  realized  why  it  is  so  necessary  for  a  woman's 
clothes  to  be  correct  to  the  smallest  detail:  outside  a  certain 
intonation  easily  acquired,  they  are  her  only  real  badge  of 
rank.  .  .  .  And  confident  in  both,  she  pushed  aside  the 
draperies  and  stepped  into  the  room.  "Good-morning,  Mr. 
Dunkerley,"  she  said  unconcernedly.  She  was  no  longer 
afraid;  for  she  knew  that  if  she  remembered  her  accent  she 
need  guard  neither  her  speech  nor  her  actions  any  more  than 
she  had  done  on  the  Bowery. 

That  night  she  asked  Dunkerley  to  see  her  home,  and  at 
the  door  of  her  apartment-house,  when  he  would  have  said 
good-night,  she  let  him  know  by  some  subtle  intonation  that 
the  image  of  Moncure  had  been  cast  down  from  its  shrine 
and  she  was  now  desirous  of  assistance  in  trampling  on  it. 


194 


BIRDS  OF  PREY 


"You  never  come  up  like  you  did  on  the  road,"  she  said, 
prettily  petulant.  .  .  . 

The  next  week,  Dunkerley's  name  was  added  to  that  list  of 
apartment-lessees  in  which  hers  figured;  but  his  unofficial 
residence  in  the  apartment-house  dated  back  a  full  seven  days. 


Book  III 
MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO 


BOOK  III 
MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO 


I.  THE  AMATEUR  BOHEMIAN 


HARLES  LESTER 
LINTHICUM  was  one  of  many 
who  claim  that  conventions 
appall  their  free  and  vibrant 
natures,  but  would  as  soon  be 
seen  without  pants  as  wearing  a 
;•  turn-over  collar  with  a  dress- 
coat,  or  a  stock  in  the 
"city.  His  insistent  claim  to 
Bohemianism  was  founded 
principally  on  the  fact  that 
he  gave  little  dinners  in  his 
studio  attended  by  women,  who,  accustomed  to  liveried  foot- 
men handing  plates  and  butlers  filling  glasses,  said  it  was 
"too  quaint"  to  be  served  by  Linthicum's  man  unassisted,  and 
to  meet  others  of  Linthicum's  profession — writing  fellows 
whom  Linthicum  treated  with  an  overdone  familiarity. 

Linthicum  first  injected  himself  into  the  life  of  Broadway 
as  a  dramatic  reviewer  for  a  weekly  founded  at  his  own 
suggestion  by  young  Harrington  James,  a  person  with  too 
large  an  income  to  spend  unaided  by  skilled  assistants.  Broad- 

197 


198  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

way  Brummel  was  to  fill  a  long-felt  want.  Being  endowed, 
it  sought  not  popular  favor,  but  was  to  be  a  magic  glass 
through  which  all  mundane  affairs  were  to  be  seen  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  upper  class.  Society,  polo,  yachting,  motor- 
ing, aviation  and  the  stage — chiefly  it  had  to  do  with  these. 
A  foreign  visitor  reading  this  agreeable  periodical,  and  this 
only,  must  have  imagined  the  United  States  in  no  way  dis- 
similar to  the  United  Kingdom.  Its  chronicles  bore  to 
actualities  no  greater  relation  than  the  tales  of  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  And  of  all  the  necromar.cing  goose  quills  in  its 
service,  none  surpassed  that  of  Charles  Lester  Linthicum. 
His  stories  of  the  mimic  world  were  those  of  a  glorified  so- 
ciety reporter.  Legitimate  actresses  gave  high  teas  and  re- 
ceptions and  conducted  themselves  generally  like  leaders  of 
fashion.  Soubrettes  became  playful,  frolicsome  debutantes. 
Show  girls  seemed  to  him  as  the  swans  must  have  looked  to 
the  ugly  duckling.  Here,  indeed,  was  the  fairy  world  of 
enchantment  which  youngsters  anticipate  while  the  orchestra 
crashes  out  the  overture;  the  gay,  yet  innocent,  life  of  a 
matinee  girl's  dream;  the  land  to  which  music  wafts  the 
imaginative,  and  where  they  remain,  alas,  only  so  long  as 
the  music  lasts. 


II 

STAGE  folk  put  on  their  Sunday  best  faces  for  Linthicum. 
Pellucid  as  he  was,  a  person  soon  learned  what  he  wanted 
one  to  be,  and  to  be  that  one  was  amazing  easy  for  mimes, 
accustomed  for  four  hours,  and  twice  a  week  eight,  to  play 
other  parts  than  the  ones  assigned  them  by  Mother  Nature. 
He  learned  that  most  show-girls  were  from  the  South,  and, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  war,  would  be  presiding  at  the  ancestral 
tea-urn. 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         199 

Those  lacking  unlucky  anfe-bellum  ancestors  seemed  to 
have  crowded  the  convents  of  the  North,  and  he  had  yet  to 
meet  one  without  some  claim  to  distinguished  relatives  and 
careful  bringing  up. 

"Be  careful,  Lottie,  you're  laying  it  on  too  thick.'* 

"What — with  this  mark?"  Carlotta  had  whispered  back. 
"Say,  take  it  from  me,  he'll  stand  for  anything." 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  Carlotta's  first  meeting  with 
Linthicum,  and  she  had  been  telling  him  how  distasteful  it 
was  for  a  sweet,  refined  girl  to  wear  tights — Lottie,  whose 
limbs  had  been  paragraphed  more  than  infrequently,  and  who, 
like  the  girl  in  the  comedian's  story,  got  thirty-five  dollars  a 
week  for  "Hip,  hip,  hurray" — thirty-four  dollars  and  ninety- 
nine  cents  for  the  two  "hips."  The  remainder  of  the  story  of 
Lottie's  early  life  her  friend  had  allowed  to  pass  in  silent 
disapproval,  but,  as  she  afterward  phrased  it  in  telling  the 
incident  in  the  dressing-room,  "Lottie's  work  was  raw  as  a 
Lynnhaven  on  the  half-shell."  At  which  Lottie,  making  up 
at  a  far  corner  of  the  long  dressing-room,  looked  over  and 
grinned  mischievously. 

"Well,  I  got  away  with  it,  didn't  I?  What's  the  use  of 
thinking  up  good  stuff  for  a  mark  like  that?  I  spotted  him 
right  away  as  the  kind  who  says,  'No  matter  what  they  are, 
I  always  treat  them  as  I'd  treat  Mrs.  Astor.  They  appreciate 
it,  poor  souls.' " 

Lottie's  imitation  of  a  gentlemanly  young  wine-dispenser 
proved  that  better  things  than  chorus  work  were  waiting  for 
her  in  the  near  future  when  her  opportunity  to  "make  good" 
should  come.  Of  her  talents  Lottie  was  well  aware ;  her  lack 
of  opportunity  she  deplored,  but,  with  the  confidence  and 
sanguinity  of  children  of  the  Nightless  Lane,  waited  for  it 
to  come,  and  did  the  best  she  could  in  the  front  row.  She 
was  never  out  of  an  engagement,  for  she  was  on  Bob  Led- 
yard's  books.  Lottie  was  what  he  called  a  "good  worker," 


200  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

being  dependent  on  her  wages  and  therefore  not  apt  to  come 
late  in  a  taxicab  with  a  frayed  excuse. 

Lottie  never  went  to  gay  supper-parties  in  private  dining- 
rooms:  firstly,  because  she  hated  the  half-ceremonious,  half- 
contemptuous  treatment  of  that  kind  of  men;  secondly,  be- 
cause she  preferred  to  choose  her  company,  unless  she  was 
penniless;  and  thirdly,  for  the  reason  that  she  believed  that 
some  day  her  name  would  be  in  electric  letters,  and  she  did 
not  want  young  bucks  to  be  entitled  to  say  languidly  that  they 
had  "had  her  out"  when  she  was  one  of  the  spear-carriers. 
After  the  theater,  she  liked  to  be  with  the  company  manager, 
the  librettist  or  composer,  the  press  agent,  some  song  writers, 
some  vaudevillians  and  some  other  girls  in  a  party  and  listen 
to  the  men  talk  "shop,"  occasionally  putting  in  an  apt  phrase, 
which  caused  those  gentlemen  to  give  her  sharp  looks  and  to 
invite  her  out  again.  Several  times  she  had  love  affairs  with 
librettists,  both  resulting  in  lines  for  her  to  say,  and,  in  the 
last  instance,  an  understudy.  She  was  now  generally  known 
as  a  "line  girl"  (one  to  be  trusted  with  "bits,"  and  an  under- 
study if  necessary),  but  this  present  engagement  necessitated 
voices  of  grand-opera  caliber  for  the  understudies,  so  her 
chance  had  been  deferred. 

This  night,  as  she  turned  matters  over  in  that  busy  little 
brain  of  hers,  she  decided  to  make  much  of  Charles  Lester 
Linthicum.  Her  former  experience  with  authors  had  taught 
her  the  jargon  of  the  writing  clan,  a  little  of  which  she  had 
used  to  good  effect  on  Linthicum  during  their  brief  dinner 
talks;  but,  of  course,  she  understood  she  must  treat  him  far 
differently  from  the  librettists. 

Some  sixth  sense  told  Lottie  that  Linthicum  would  be 
waiting  for  her  that  night ;  and,  as  she  stepped  past  the  door- 
keeper, a  taxi-driver  proved  her  prophecy  by  handing  her 
a  note  on  the  paper  of  a  smart  supper  place;  a  note  that 
apologized  for  Linthicum's  absence,  pleading  a  lack  of  desire 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         201 

to  be  classed  as  a  stage-door  Johnnie,  and  would  she  take  the 
taxicab  and  join  him?  At  supper  she  coruscated.  She  said 
all  of  the  usual  things  about  how  musical  shows  have  de- 
teriorated since  Gilbert  and  Sullivan ;  how  horseplay  has  taken 
the  place  of  real  wit — and  various  other  stock  statements  she 
had  heard  her  literary  friends  make  when  their  wits  were 
dull  and  they  must  say  something  to  pass  the  time. 

She  had  the  opportunity  of  saying  later  to  a  timid  proposal 
in  a  taxicab: 

"Mr.  Linthicum,  if  I  wanted  a  furnished  apartment  of 
my  own  I  could  have  had  one  long,  long  ago.  Yes,  and  if 
I'd  taken  it,  I  wouldn't  be  in  the  chorus.  With  my  voice 
and  looks,  I  might  be  getting  part  of  my  pay  in  'three  sheets' 
now,  my  face  on  every  bill-board  in  New  York.  But — " 

It  required  some  courage  to  finish  the  sentence.  Lottie, 
who  had  a  hothouse  sense  of  humor —  However,  a  long 
breath  and  she  managed  it: 

"I'm  not  that  kind  of  a  girl,  Mr.  Linthicum." 

"I'm  glad — I'm  awfully  glad,"  Linthicum  had  burst  out, 
and  then,  as  her  eyes  looked  astonished  inquiry,  he  blundered 
on  apologetically:  "You  see,  they're  always  trying  to  make 
out  you  stage  girls  are  so — so — well,  you  know.  Simply 
looking  for  a  man  to — er — assist  them — almost  any  man.  And 
I  liked  you  so  much  to-night — you're  so  different — I  was  de- 
termined I'd  find  out  before  I  got  to  care  too  much  about  you. 
For  I  do  care,  Lottie.  You  don't  mind  me  calling  you  'Lot- 
tie'—" 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hand  gently. 

"No,  I  don't  mind  that"  she  said  in  her  purest  tones. 
"But  you  mustn't  talk  about  caring  for  me — we  girls  hear  too 
much  of  that.  And  you  say  I'm  different — I  thought  you  were 
different,  too,  or  I  shouldn't  have  gone  to  supper  with  you." 

He  drove  away  from  the  apartment-hotel  where  she  lived 
wildly  intoxicated  by  "the  perfume  of  her  presence" — four 


202  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

dollars  a  bottle  and  used  a  drop  at  a  time.  Here  was  the 
right  sort  of  girl — Bohemian,  a  good  pal,  could  understand 
a  man's  work,  not  mercenary,  and  as  straight  as  his  own 
sister.  (We  copy  the  Linthicum  verbiage.)  She  sat,  fully 
dressed,  for  some  time,  thinking.  Here  was  a  man — money, 
position,  and  best  of  all,  influence  with  the  managers.  Broad- 
way Brummel  was  the  directory  of  the  swagger  crowd  so  far 
as  amusements  were  concerned ;  and  he  was  Broadway  Brum- 
mel in  so  far  as  it  concerned  the  theatrical  world.  Her  cue 
was  merely  to  read  up  on  things  likely  to  interest  him,  be 
"not  that  kind  of  girl,"  and  tell  him  that  he  must  prove  that 
he  really  cared  as  he  said  he  did — make  her  learn  to  care  for 
him  by  helping  her  to  attain  her  ambitions ;  a  "not  that  kind 
of  a  girl"  girl  had  too  small  a  chance  with  managers'  pets 
and  authors'  pets  and — 

Authors'  pet !  She  was  seized  with  sudden  alarm.  Where- 
upon she  sat  down  and  hastily  indited  a  letter,  enjoining 
secrecy.  "It  is  all  over  now,  and  I've  met  someone  whom  I 
care  for,  and  who  wouldn't  look  on  things  the  way  we  do." 
The  envelope  bore  the  name  of  a  well-known  librettist. 


Ill 

UP  to  this  period,  Lottie  had  been  as  are  countless  other 
pretty  denizens  of  the  Nightless  Lane.  She  crammed  her  feet 
into  a  modicum  of  toe,  and  slanted  them  upward  at  an  angle 
of  forty-five  degrees  until  her  heels  rested  on  three  or  four 
inches  of  hard  leather — "short  vamp"  shoes  the  profession 
called  them;  her  stockings  cost  half  a  dollar  and  were  silk 
only  to  the  knees,  for  she  economized  on  every  other  article 
of  apparel  to  buy  new  and  attention-compelling  headgear. 

Soon  after  Linthicum's  entry  into  her  life,  one  would 
have  picked  her  out  of  any  Broadway  crowd  and  wondered 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        203 

what  she  was  doing  away  from  Fifth  Avenue.  In  tailored 
clothes,  relieved  from  mannishness  by  soft  jabots  and  cuffs, 
in  simple  hats  with  a  single  quill  or  feather,  her  hair  arranged 
girlishly  instead  of  twisted  onto  the  current  coiffure,  Lottie 
looked  like  Linthicum's  sister — which  was  what  Linthicum 
aimed  at.  This  metamorphosis  effected,  he  smuggled  her  into 
unimportant  teas  and  parties  given  by  the  smart  "Bohemian" 
world,  where  foregathered  well-known  English  actors,  the 
better  class  of  literary  and  artistic  folk  who  are  comfortable 
in  dress  clothes,  and  a  sprinkling  of  those  of  the  Social 
Register.  Lottie  listened,  picked  up  their  patter,  learned  to 
enunciate  her  words  after  the  English  fashion,  learned  to 
deplore  the  fact  that  ladies  and  gentlemen  did  not  go  on  the 
stage  here  in  America  as  they  do  in  England  and  discovered 
that  one  who  devoted  a  life  to  the  amassing  of  money  was 
to  be  despised  and  rejected  by  all  real  people. 

Lottie  looked  upon  all  this  as  a  clever  child  looks  on 
schooling:  hating  the  school  and  the  masters,  but  realizing 
the  necessity  of  the  education.  After  such  an  afternoon,  what 
a  relief  to  get  to  the  dressing-room  and  give  imitations  for 
her  companion  coryphees  of  those  she  had  met;  how  refresh- 
ing to  have  the  comedian  put  a  careless  arm  around  her  waist 
and  kiss  her  if  he  felt  so  inclined,  not  because  he  cared  any- 
thing for  her,  but  because  her  kind  of  people  were  affectionate 
and  •  undignified,  not  always  thinking  of  what  was  "good 
form";  to  go,  afterward,  if  some  lucky  chance  kept  Lin- 
thicum engaged  elsewhere,  to  some  little  cafe  where  ragtime 
singers  and  dancers  twirled  and  snapped  their  fingers,  looking 
admiringly  at  her  when  the  words  happened  to  refer  to  a 
"beautiful  doll"  or  a  "wonderful  girl."  At  such  times  she  would 
grow  excited  and  her  pretty  eyes  would  light  up,  and  when 
she  danced  with  some  man  of  her  party  and  his  hand  closed 
on  hers,  her  little  fingers  would  clasp  it  more  tightly.  Such 
men  called  her  "honey  child"  and  "dear"  at  their  first  meet- 


204  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

ing,  and  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  pretend  to  be  anything 
except  what  she  was  when  she  was  with  them;  they  liked 
her  because  she  was  their  little  playmate,  Lottie,  and  they 
made  love  to  her  as  they  made  love  to  all  their  little  play- 
mates; but  a  single  word  warned  them  and  the  love-making 
ended  without  ill  feeling,  and,  with  equal  cheerfulness  and 
sincerity,  the  man  made  love  to  the  girl  on  the  other  side 
of  him.  That  is,  unless  the  girl  in  question  happened  to  be 
the  sweetheart  of  a  friend — in  which  case  the  men  were  as 
scrupulously  careful  as  though  the  pair  were  married. 

A  queer  little  world  with  unwritten  laws  more  binding 
than  any  in  the  statute  books — a  world  that  ceases  to  be  at 
the  entrance  of  an  alien  who  would  not  understand.  A 
tolerably  well-behaved  world,  too,  a  cheerful,  hard-working 
world  that  takes  nothing  seriously  except  "getting  on." 


IV 

IN  this  world,  then,  Lottie  met  Tommy  Hartsell.  Tommy 
was  what  his  companions  called  a  "bar-room  comedian,"  which 
is  to  say  that  he  made  everybody  laugh 'except  the  public. 
True,  he  had  not  tried  very  hard  to  make  the  public  laugh; 
for,  so  far,  he  had  produced  only  lyrics  for  such  songs  as 
were  demanded  of  him  by  his  contract  with  his  publishers. 
Tommy  would  sit  up  half  the  night  composing  some  bit  of 
local  wit  and  cleverness  which  could  amuse  only  those  of  a 
very  limited  circle;  while  to  the  work  that  brought  him  a 
scanty  livelihood,  because  he  did  so  little  of  it,  he  gave  only 
the  time  absolutely  necessary,  taking  his  "dummy  lyric"  after 
a  tune  had  been  composed  and  writing  in  its  place,  almost  as 
swiftly  as  another  would  write  prose,  some  jingles  that 
served  its  purpose  well  enough,  but  not  any  too  well.  To 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         205 

make  a  tableful  of  companions  hold  their  sides  with  laughter 
was  Tommy's  chief  ambition. 

He  took  no  women  seriously,  cared  for  them  as  a  sex, 
giving  none  more  than  another,  ready  for  an  affair  with  any 
pretty  one  who  fancied  him  first,  but  never  exposing  himself 
to  defeat  by  making  advances  unless  sure  they  were  accept- 
able. A  byword  for  fickleness,  he  promptly  deserted  any 
sweetheart  after  a  month  or  so,  and  was  so  busy  getting  new 
ones  that,  at  twenty-nine,  he  was  in  the  same  chronic  state 
of  pecuniary  embarrassment  he  had  inherited  from  a  devil- 
may-care  father. 

Tommy  carried  a  notebook  in  which  he  jotted  down  much 
useless  information;  among  which  was  the  number  of  times 
women  had  said  to  him:  "You  act  the  way  you  do  because 
you've  never  been  in  love;  some  day  you'll  meet  THE  woman, 
and  she'll  give  you  what  you've  given  others.  Then  you'll 
know  how  it  feels." 

When  Lottie  added  herself  to  the  others  who  had  made 
this  remark,  Tommy  gravely  inscribed  her  name,  informing 
her  that  she  was  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-fifth. 

"The  most  beautiful  trait  in  women — to  me,"  added 
Tommy,  "is  their  affection  for  Thompson  Hartsell.  Until 
one  of  them  has  this  wonderful  trait,  no  matter  how  otherwise 
wonderful  she  is,  I  cannot  become  interested  in  her." 

"That's  because  you're  not  a  real  man !"  Lottie  said  scorn- 
fully. 

"Like  'old  lady  Linthicum,'  for  instance?"  he  suggested 
mildly. 

"If  you  were  only  half  the  man  he  is — "  she  said  elliptically. 

"I'd  be  listening  to  you  repeat  word  for  word  things  you've 
read  and  don't  understand.  Lottie,  don't  let  that  solemn  ass 
make  you  forget  that  the  first  duty  of  pretty  little  girls  like 
yourself  is  to  be  highly  ornamental  and  inconsequentially 


206  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

joyous.  You're  a  frank  little  pagan,  and  as  a  worshiper  of 
Dionysus — I  adore  you." 

She  forgot  her  pose  long  enough  to  ask  him  who  Dionysus 
was ;  he  sounded  like  the  sort  of  person  an  acquaintance  with 
whom  was  likely  to  impress  Linthicum. 

"Well — I'm  a  Dionysian  and  so  are  you — because  our 
pleasures  are  the  natural  results  of  untrammeled  natures; 
while  a  hard-working  business  man  out  to  make  a  night  of  it 
once  or  twice  a  week,  drinking  too  much  and  taking  his 
pleasures  coarsely,  is  a  Bacchanalian.  Dionysus  and  Bacchus 
are — supposititiously — the  same  god — but,  oh,  what  a  differ- 
ence in  the  morning!" 

"It  isn't  as  though  you  were  a  real  man,"  Lottie  persisted, 
because  it  seemed  to  be  the  only  insult  he  could  not  answer. 
"You  conceited  thing!  I  wouldn't  like  to  buy  you  at  your 
own  valuation." 

"You  could  get  me  awful  cheap,"  said  Tommy.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I'm  not  much  good  any  way  you  look  at  it. 
But  it  shall  never  be  said  of  the  last  of  the  Hartsells  that  he 
was  a  polisher  of  peanuts." 

His  meaning  eluded  her,  but  the  phrase  won  him  a  laugh. 

"It's  impossible  to  take  you  seriously,"  said  Lottie.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  polishing  peanuts?" 

"Plays — novels — short  stories — poems — librettos — lyrics — 
any  form  of  popular  writing  to-day — peanuts,"  returned  Mr. 
Thompson  Hartsell,  for  so  he  must  be  called  when  his  eyes 
lose  their  merry  spark  and  he  ceases  to  be  Pierrot  and  be- 
comes philosopher.  "Everything  is  sacrificed  to-day  to  the 
tastes  of  the  middle  class.  A  play  or  a  novel,  even  a  foolish 
lyric  such  as  I  write,  must  have  a  kernel  that  is  tasteful  to 
the  bourgeoisie,  and,  since  peanuts  are  the  most  bourgeois 
of  nuts — peanuts !  Thompson  Hartsell  will  polish  no  peanuts 
for  you." 

Contrasting  this  superior  attitude,  which  left  him  poor  and 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         207 

unknown,  with  the  serious  attitude  Charles  Lester  Linthicum 
observed  toward  his  work — as  though  it  were  some  sacred 
lamp  burning  in  a  barren  waste — Carlotta  wondered.  To  her, 
as  to  most  people,  plays  produced  for  two  dollars  a  seat  and 
books  published  at  one  dollar  and  a  half  a  copy  were  first 
class ;  others  second,  third,  fourth  and  fifth  rate  according 
to  the  price  people  paid  to  see  or  to  read  them.  That  Lin- 
thicum was  first  class  she  had  not  doubted,  while  people  of 
whom  the  public  had  never  heard — like  Hartsell — were  natur- 
ally inferior  intellects.  Now  their  positions  seemed  reversed; 
for  Linthicum  stooped  to  take  seriously  the  people  that  Hart- 
sell  despised. 

"In  so  utilitarian  a  country  as  ours,  few  ever  come  to 
a  realization  that  thoughts  are  actual  existent  things,  the  uses 
to  which  they  are  put  only  secondary,"  Hartsell  went  on,  as 
though  reading  her  mind.  "Real  philosophy  lives  while 
second-rate  deeds  die.  Socrates,  Plato  and  Aristotle  are  alive 
to-day  for  what  they  were,  and  influence  the  lives  of  the 
seekers  of  knowledge,  while  there  is  meat  in  the  popular  plays 
of  Aristophanes  only  for  the  antiquarian  and  the  snuffy 
scholar." 

He  broke  off  with  his  usual  laugh.  "Reads  just  like  a 
four-dollar  subscription  book,  eh?  Let's  be  Dionysians  again," 
he  said,  and  kissed  her.  He  did  it  with  force,  almost  with 
brutality,  for  when  he  talked  as  he  had  just  done  (which  was 
seldom  nowadays)  he  felt  a  great  bitterness  for  the  unknow- 
ing, unthinking  world  that  placed  no  value  on  the  treasures 
of  the  mind  unless  a  spade  and  pickaxe  unearthed  the 
treasures  and  made  them  salable. 

His  action  so  masterful,  withal,  so  careless  of  her  own 
wishes  and  desires,  thrilled  Lottie,  and  from  that  moment, 
whether  he  wanted  her  or  not — and  she  was  not  sure  he  did 
• — she  was  his.  But  she  gave  no  indication  of  this  surrender 


208  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

beyond  an  instinctive  return  of  his  caress,  for  which  she  hated 
herself  a  second  later. 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  she  said,  referring  to  his  action.  "I 
like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,  Tommy.  I  do  hate  people 
not  to  be  serious  with  me  and  talk  about  serious  things." 


As  a  direct  result  of  this  conversation,  the  great  Charles 
Lester  Linthicum  decided  to  write  a  libretto. 

For,  from  the  moment  Lottie  fell  in  love  with  Tommy 
Hartsell,  she  forgot  her  own  plans  for  advancement  through 
Linthicum,  and  thought  only  how  she  could  influence  that 
most  popular  of  all  the  best  sellers  to  act  as  the  god  in  the 
car  for  the  proper  recognition  of  Thompson  Hartsell  by  a 
benighted  public.  Thus  may  we  follow  the  somewhat  devious 
workings  of  the  young  lady's  mind: 

"Of  course  I  know  Tommy  is  wonderful  because  I  have 
a  much  better  brain  than  most  people,  but  the  public  doesn't 
know  it;  and  when  I  am  very  famous  I  don't  want  people 
to  have  to  ask:  'Who  is  that  man  with  her?'  I  want  them 
to  say:  'Isn't  that  a  good  pair — the  famous  Carlotta  Alleyne 
and  the  famous  Thompson  Hartsell.' 

"And  though  Tommy  may  despise  the  public  and  the  kind 
of  work  they  admire,  still  he  has  just  got  to  be  brought  to 
do  something  to  be  heard  of.  Charlie  Linthicum  loves  the 
ground  I  walk  on,  so  if  I  tell  him  he's  the  only  man  in  the 
world  who  can  write  me  the  sort  of  part  I  can  shine  in, 
why  Charlie  will  just  do  it,  and  I  will  suggest  Tommy  for 
writing  the  lyrics;  and  if  I  insist  Charlie  will  insist^  and  the 
managers  will  have  to  like  the  libretto  and  lyrics  and  have 
music  written  for  them,  because  Charlie's  influence  is  too 
great  for  them  to  offend  him — and  besides,  his  name  will  be 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         209 

a  great  advertisement.  And  I  will  have  him  insist  that  there 
be  a  clause  in  the  contract  that  no  one  else  shall  be  permitted  to 
rewrite  any  of  the  piece  except  the  authors,  and,  of  course, 
when  the  piece  goes  into  rehearsals  almost  everything  Charlie 
writes  will  be  cut  out  because  he  doesn't  understand  musical 
shows;  and  because  of  that  clause  in  the  contract,  Tommy 
will  have  to  rewrite  it  or  close  the  show,  and  that  will  prove 
to  the  managers  what  Tommy  can  do;  and  then,  when  they 
come  to  him  begging  him  to  write  shows,  instead  of  him  being 
too  proud  to  beg  them,  as  he  is  now,  he  will  write  them  and 
be  famous." 

Which,  on  the  whole,  was  a  remarkable  piece  of  synthesis 
for  a  young  woman  in  the  chorus. 

The  idea  of  the  libretto  having  had  a  second  birth  in  the 
brain  of  Mr.  Charles  Lester  Linthicum,  he  hastened  to  the 
nearest  manager  and  propounded  the  same.  It  was  received 
cordially,  for  managers  are  ever  alert  for  the  famous  recruit 
from  Bookland,  having  heard  much  of  the  Gilbert-Messiah 
who  is  some  day  to  appear ;  but  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Hartsell 
as  a  collaborator  was  frowned  upon,  the  manager  having  lost 
the  admiration  of  a  young  lady  of  whom  he  was  fond  through 
allowing  Tommy  to  interpolate  a  number  into  a  last-season 
show. 

"Unreliable ;  might  turn  out  one  good  feature  number,  but 
sure  to  come  across  with  si.v  lemons.  Hartsell's  been  dubbing 
around  here  for  years;  had  all  the  chances  in  the  world,  but 
all  he's  good  for  is  to  fill  Dithmar's  catalogue  with  shop- 
counter  sheet  music.  Get  a  live  one,  Mr.  Linthicum." 

But  the  indefatigable  Lottie  had  borrowed  from  Tommy 
various  slips  of  frayed  typewriting  that  he  carried  in  his 
pockets  and  read  to  select  assemblies  of  friends,  and  a  man 
like  Linthicum  would  recognize  what  the  managers  could  not, 
the  touch  of  the  true  artist.  So  he  insisted  on  Hartsell  and 
carried  his  point.  Later  the  contract  was  shown  to  Nathan 


210  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Morris,  the  firm's  indispensable  play  doctor,  who  administered 
physic  to  shows  about  to  leave  "the  road"  for  New  York,  and 
who  carefully  indexed  every  joke,  situation  and  bright  line 
he  read  in  newspapers,  foreign  magazines  and  translations  for 
possible  use  in  the  future. 

"You  signed  a  contract  for  an  amateur  and  a  lunatic  to 
write  your  summer  revue  that's  got  to  go  into  rehearsal  in 
a  month,  and  you  let  'em  get  a  clause  in  that  their  work 
wasn't  to  be  fixed  up  by  me — I  think  you  must  be  dippy, 
too." 

"But  think  of  the  free  advertisement  Linthicum's  name 
gives  us — the  first  play  by  a  man  who  writes  a  'best  seller' 
a  year,"  chimed  in  the  press  agent.  "Why,  it'll  be  good  for  a 
column  in  every  newspaper  in  the  country.  You  know  the 
stuff:  'It  looks  as  though  the  old  days  of  comic  opera  are 
returning  when  such  men  as  Mr.  Blank  Blankety  Blank,  the 
author  of  "Sin  and  the  Seventeen  Sinners,"  that  masterpiece 
of  caustic  causerie,  turn  their  hands  to  work  hitherto  un- 
fortunately given  over  to  managers'  hacks.'  That  happens 
whenever  anybody  but  a  regular  librettist  gets  into  the  game, 
and  Linthicum  is  the  biggest  fish  in  the  literary  pond." 

"Yes,  but  who's  to  do  the  work,  with  that  silly  contract 
about  nobody  else  working  on  the  book?"  howled  Morris. 
"Hartsell — who  thinks  musical  shows  are  a  joke — who  'kids' 
his  own  stuff  all  the  time?  And  who  is  this  girl,  Carlotta 
Alleyne,  you've  signed  away  a  principal  part  to?" 

"Oh,  Lottie  Allen  ?  She's  all  right,"  answered  the  manager, 
brightening  up.  "She  went  on  in  May's  place  in  'The  Princess' 
at  a  Wednesday  'mat/  and  I  always  intended  to  do  something 
for  her,  but  forgot." 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         211 


VI 

THIS  is  the  story  of  how  near  to  being  right  the  play 
doctor  was. 

Linthicum  read  the  "book"  one  Monday  morning  on  the 
Garden  stage,  with  the  members  of  the  cast  drawn  up  in  a 
semicircle  around  him:  on  one  side  of  his  table  Tommy 
Hartsell,  yawning  intermittently;  on  the  other,  with  a  face  of 
ghostly  calm,  the  great  Bob  Ledyard,  who  had  been  engaged 
at  five  hundred  a  week  to  stage  the  production.  Ledyard, 
after  the  first  few  pages,  did  not  dare  to  raise  his  eyes  for 
fear  of  meeting  those  of  the  "principals."  In  his  opinion  no 
play  could  be  a  success  unless  producer  and  cast  believed  in 
it,  and  if  any  of  the  cast  looked  at  him  until  he  had  recovered 
from  his  shock,  they  would  know  he  began  without ,  faith. 

Every  now  and  then  he  stole  a  glance  at  the  sleek  and 
satisfied  novelist,  as  he  rambled  on  with  discursive  dialogue, 
pink-tea  witticisms  and  perverted  puns.  Whenever  a  char- 
acter, not  a  gentleman,  was  introduced,  it  was  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a  weird  dialect — Bowery  characters  speaking 
of  "blokes"  and  "toffs"  as  Whitechapel  folk  do;  a  negro 
making  use  of  the  adjective  "mighty"  every  second  speech 
and  addressing  everyone  as  "boss";  the  comedy  of  a  society 
climber,  a  woman,  lying  almost  entirely  in  Malapropisms  and 
barbarous  misuse  of  a  few  simple  French  phrases;  and  the 
two  comedians — there  is  no  language  in  vogue  in  any  modern 
country  which  could  even  dimly  describe  the  two  comedians' 
parts. 

The  people  of  the  stage  are  polite,  and  always  make  it  a 
point  to  laugh  whenever  their  author  seems  to  lay  comic 
stress  on  a  sentence;  moreover,  they  are  easy  to  amuse;  but 
in  this  case,  they  stopped  straining  themselves  after  the  first 


BIRDS  OP  PREY 

act.  All  gazed  inquiringly  at  Bob  Ledyard,  who,  by  this  time 
master  of  himself,  stared  back  in  cold  surprise. 

"I  will  take  the  principals  at  one  o'clock  sharp,"  he  said, 
when  Linthicum  closed  the  neatly  bound  script  of  "The 
Parisians."  "No  questions  until  then,  please. 

"I  was  going  to  take  you  people  now,"  said  Ledyard  to 
the  others.  "But  something  I  didn't  anticipate  has  come  up, 
so  I  must  run  down  to  Mr.  Mandelbaum's  office.  Mr.  Schanze 
will  teach  you  the  opening  chorus  while  I'm  gone." 

No  one  knew  he  was  referring  to  the  libretto  as  the  un- 
anticipated matter  except  Lottie,  and,  possibly  Hartsell,  loung- 
ing over  by  the  piano  beside  the  composer,  Schanze,  who  wore 
a  look  of  blank  dismay.  Ledyard  clapped  on  his  hat,  caught 
up  his  coat  and  ran  out  of  the  stage  entrance  to  his  motor 
car,  where  sat  already  enthroned  Miss  Carlotta  Alleyne. 

"What  d'you  want,  Lottie  ?"  he  asked  in  a  displeased  tone. 

"The  book  was  terrible,  wasn't  it?  Oh,  don't  look  at  me 
like  that,  Mr.  Ledyard — you  know  you're  going  down  to  the 
office  to  have  Nat  Morris  get  to  work  rewriting  it,  aren't 
you?  But  it  won't  do  any  good — there's  a  clause  in  the  con- 
tract preventing  it." 

As  the  car  tore  down  Broadway,  she  outlined  the  situation 
briefly. 

The  car  halted  before  Mandelbaum's  office. 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Ledyard — I  want  to  help  you. 
There's  nothing  in  the  contract  to  prevent  Thompson  Hartsell 
from  rewriting  the  book;  and  he's  clever,  awfully  clever — 
he  can  do  just  what  you  want.  And  I  ought  to  know.  I've 
been  on  your  books  long  enough — worked  for  you  in  four 
productions — to  know  what  you  want." 

"The  lyric-writer?  He's  never  written  a  book;  I've  no 
time  to  waste  on  inexperienced  people,"  Ledyard  began  dis- 
jointedly.  Her  calm,  matter-of-fact  assurance  and  absolute 
confidence  puzzled  him.  She  saw  her  advantage,  and  passed 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         213 

to  him  the  same  frayed  bits  of  typewriting  carried  so  long  in 
Hartsell's  pocket,  those  which  had  already  served  her  once 
in  getting  Linthicum  to  insist  on  Tommy's  collaboration. 

"Hartsell  wrote  those,"  she  said  simply. 

No  one  but  a  brilliantly  clever  man  could  have  done  the 
fooling  that  Ledyard  was  now  frowning  over;  work  that 
represented  much  midnight  electricity  burnt  for  no  reason 
than  to  amuse  some  theatrical  dinner  with  hits  in  rhyme  at 
the  foibles  and  fancies  of  prominent  people  of  their  world; 
work  too  local  to  be  understood  by  more  than  a  few  thousands. 

"It  doesn't  say  much  for  him,  wasting  his  time  like  that," 
growled  Ledyard. 

"It  proves  he  can  do  what's  got  to  be  done,  doesn't  it?" 
persisted  Lottie  with  a  woman's  tenacity  where  the  man  she 
loves  is  concerned.  "Listen,  Mr.  Ledyard:  I'll  get  Mr.  Lin- 
thicum to  go  away  and  stay  away  until  the  dress  rehearsal. 
He's  wanted  in  Newport  and  Bar  Harbor,  and  he  isn't  wanted 
here.  Meanwhile  you  get  Mr.  Hartsell  to  rewrite  the  book. 
Stand  over  him  with  a  club  and  make  him  do  it.  Don't  tell 
him  it's  for  his  own  sake — to  make  a  reputation  or  money 
or  anything  like  that;  tell  him  it's  for  you;  as  a  friend,  beg 
him  to  help  you  out.  Make  him  help  you  shoulder  the  re- 
sponsibility ;  take  him  home  with  you  and  lock  him  in  a  room, 
and  don't  let  him  out  until  he  finishes  an  act.  That's  the 
only  way,  believe  me ;  do  that,  and  we'll  have  a  success." 

When  she  finished,  breathless,  Ledyard  looked  at  her  in 
silent  amazement.  As  one  of  his  "girls" — at  whom  he  stormed 
and  raved  during  rehearsals,  but  for  whom  he  cherished  an 
almost  paternal  regard,  and  saw  to  it  that  they  always  had 
work — he  had  regarded  her  as  a  promising  child ;  he  had  been 
glad  to  see  her  promoted  to  a  principal's  part,  a  move  he  had 
himself  recommended,  but  in  the  role  of  Little  Miss  Fix-It 
she  was  as  yet  a  newcomer  and  had  to  be  understood. 

And  she  made  him  understand,  right  there  on  the  Broad- 


214  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

way  curb,  with  hundreds  of  people  both  of  them  knew  passing 
and  repassing  unrecognized.  And  Ledyard,  being  one  of 
the  people  of  behind  the  "back  drop,"  found  nothing  to  censure 
in  this  use  of  Linthicum  to  exalt  Hartsell ;  for  the  lyric-writer 
and  the  girl  were  of  his  world,  while  for  the  self-satisfied 
amateur  Bohemian  he  had  only  the  contempt  in  which  stage 
folk  hold  those  who  invade  the  country  of  rouge  paws  and 
pearl  powder  equipped  with  ammunition  as  defective  as  the 
script  of  "The  Parisians"  had  proved  to  be. 

"I'll  speak  to  Mr.  Mandelbaum  about  it,"  said  Ledyard 
gruffly. 


VII 

LEDYARD  was,  at  heart,  as  kindly  a  soul  and  as  good  a 
companion  as  lived,  his  air  of  sternness  and  manner  of  shout- 
ing when  things  went  wrong  at  rehearsal  being  merely  part 
of  his  system  of  discipline,  which,  on  the  first  day,  transformed 
any  chorus  he  rehearsed  into  soldiers.  For  all  of  that,  he 
permitted  no  one  else,  not  even  the  managers  for  whom  he 
worked,  to  speak  harshly  to  his  people  or  even  of  them. 
Hartsell  had  never  known  him  personally  until  Ledyard  asked 
him  to  lunch  that  day.  Thereafter,  in  spite  of  Tommy's 
protests,  he  became  as  clay  in  the  big  fellow's  hands;  being 
managed  as  easily  as  Ledyard's  actors  and  chorus  people, 
although  by  a  different  system. 

Lottie  had  found  the  flaw  in  Hartsell's  armor.  Con- 
temptuous as  he  was  of  fame  and  fortune,  he  yet  would  do 
anything  to  win  the  plaudits  of  those  he  admired — among 
whom  Ledyard  soon  figured.  Moreover,  Ledyard  took  the 
right  viewpoint  regarding  the  work  to  be  done — that  is,  Hart- 
sell's  viewpoint. 

"Of  course  all  this  business  is  utter  rot — you  know  it  and 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        215 

I  know  it.  But  I've  always  had  a  fancy  that  if  some  fellow 
with  a  real  sense  of  humor  instead  of  a  stage  sense  would 
pretend  to  take  it  seriously,  and  write  a  burlesque  on  men 
and  things  as  they  seem  to  him,  we  might  have  something 
new  and  successful.  Take  Swift  for  instance;  his  satire 
would  make  a  gorgeous  background  for  a  musical  show — 
'Gulliver'  was  just  built  for  comic  opera.  Burlesque  the  old 
situations,  giving  them  a  new  twist,  so  that  when  the  public 
thinks  it  knows  what  it's  going  to  get,  it  doesn't  get  it  at  all." 

Hartsell  became  enthusiastic  at  once ;  but  he  did  not  know 
Ledyard  was  referring  to  work  to  be  done  in  this  particular 
show.  When  he  discovered  it,  he  flatly  refused. 

"I'm  the  lyric-writer,  Mr.  Ledyard,"  he  said. 

"But  Linthicum's  gone  away,  and  we've  got  to  have  a 
show.  Here  I  am  sticking  only  because  I've  got  faith  in  you 
pulling  us  out  of  this  hole;  are  you  going  to  be  a  quitter? 
Going  to  throw  me  down — and  that  company  of  a  hundred 
people?  Haven't  you  got  any  heart?  Don't  throw  us  down." 

Hartsell  wavered.  Ledyard  thrust  the  script  into  his  hand, 
hurried  him  into  a  motor  car  and  to  his  apartment;  where 
he  locked  him  in  the  library  with  a  stenographer,  tobacco  and 
refreshments  near  at  hand,  an  electric  bell  and  a  dumbwaiter. 
Then  he  went  back  to  his  chorus. 

In  a  spirit  of  mad  resentment  at  having  this  work  forced 
upon  him,  Tommy  Hartsell  carefully  made  a  list  of  every 
scene  of  physical  and  "prop"  comedy  that  he  had  seen  wring 
shouts  of  laughter  from  benighted  audiences ;  also  every  stock 
line  of  the  "humorists"  and  the  vaudeville  comics.  Having 
satisfied  himself  that  he  had  exhausted  the  resources  of  his 
memory  on  these  subjects,  he  lighted  a  cigar  and  told  the 
expectant  stenographer  he  was  ready  to  begin. 

He  dictated  rapidly,  but  all  the  while  building  a  structure 
out  of  his  fifty-seven  "sure-fire  laughs"  and  situations;  a 
structure  which,  while  enabling  him  to  use  the  stuff  he  despised 


216  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

in  slightly  different  clothes,  allowed  also  fierce  fun  to  be  made 
of  it  and  those  who  thought  it  admirable.  The  stenographer 
missed  his  nights  of  satire,  but  was  so  continually  amused 
by  the  misfortunes  of  the  comedians  that  she  had  many 
times  to  stop  him  until  she  could  recover  breath  lost  by  laugh- 
ing at  situations  that  were  old  when  the  world  was  new — 
primitive  physical  comedy.  Not  once,  however,  did  she  titter 
at  his  Swiftian  rapier  thrusts  at  moth-eaten  ideals  and  idols; 
which  increased  Hartsell's  bitterness  to  such  an  extent  that, 
as  he  went  on,  there  was  less  and  less  of  the  Juvenal  and 
more  and  more  of  the  Autolycus  predominant.  He  rang  his 
first-act  curtain  down  with  a  situation  that  before  the  slight 
change  he  made  in  it  had  done  duty  since  Sheridan's  time. 
It  rendered  the  stenographer  helpless  with  mirth. 

"I'll  bet  this  show  is  a  great  success,"  she  said  cordially. 
"I  never  laughed  so  much  in  my  life." 

"Give  it  to  Mr.  Ledyard  when  you're  through,"  said  Hart- 
sell.  It  was  dusk  now,  and  Ledyard  came  in  answer  to  his 
ringing,  and  let  him  out  when  he  heard  the  first  act  was 
finished. 

"Well  ?"  asked  the  producer. 

The  stenographer  burst  into  eulogy. 

"That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  counts,"  said  Ledyard, 
linking  his  arm  in  Hartsell's  after  giving  the  stenographer 
instructions  to  have  script  and  "parts"  typed  by  the  morning. 
"The  little  'steno'  there — she's  an  average  sample  of  the  public 
— if  you  made  her  laugh  you  can  make  them  all  laugh  and 
there's  a  fortune  waiting  for  you,  my  boy." 

Immediately  he  was  sorry  he  had  said  it. 

"Sooner  than  make  a  fortune  that  way,  by  prostituting 
every  -mite  of  talent  I  have,  I'd  rather  be  a  bum,"  c,aid  Hart- 
sell  hotly. 

It  was  some  time  before  Ledyard  could  persuade  him  to 
go  on  with  the  second  act.  It  was  written  the  following  day 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         217 

in  about  the  same  time  and  in  the  same  manner,  except  that 
as  the  play  progressed  the  satire  entirely  disappeared.  Just 
before  the  final  curtain,  however,  Hartsell  introduced  the 
character  of  a  soured  dramatic  critic,  who  said  of  what  Hart- 
sell  had  written  just  what  that  sort  of  a  critic  was  likely  to 
say — certainly  no  critic  could  say  more. 

Even  with  this  Ledyard  was  delighted. 

"It's  great,"  said  Ledyard  with  an  air  of  finality.  "It's 
the  surest-fire  show  I  ever  rehearsed.  Now  all  I  ask  of  you 
is  to  stick  around  at  rehearsals,  and  make  little  changes  here 
and  there  for  song  cues  and  'front'  scenes  as  we  may  require 
them—" 

"All  you  ask !"  Hartsell  laughed  harshly.  "To  sit  around 
and  listen  to  that  stuff,  and  have  people  know  I  wrote  it?" 

"But  they  think  you're  great,"  said  Ledyard.  "And  you 
are." 


VIII 

IT  is  permitted  to  few  of  the  world  to  know  that  in  this 
life  of  ours  there  is  no  real  tragedy,  except  the  tragedy  of 
extreme  poverty  where  babies  die  in  the  hot  summer  for 
want  of  a  nickel's  worth  of  ice ;  and  the  tragedy  of  the  maimed, 
the  blind,  the  disfigured  or  congenitally  weak.  Outside  of 
these  terribly  actual  things,  all  other  tragedy  is  fictitious, 
largely  the  result  of  a  lack  of  introspection  or  sense  of  humor. 
As  civilization  progresses  a  realization  of  this  fact  becomes 
general,  and  the  heroes  of  drama  become  comic  figures,  chasing 
the  limelight.  We  exchange  a  "Silver  King"  with  his  "My 
God!  Me  own  child!"  for  a  "Devil's  Disciple"  who  insists 
that  he  has  a  right  to  commit  a  bit  of  melodramatic  bravado 
which  threatens  him  with  the  rope  without  having  the  excuse 
tagged  onto  it  that  he  did  it  for  love  of  the  wife  of  the  man 


218  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

he  saved;  and,  not  being  able  to  have  her — the  old  dramatists 
would  explain — sacrificed  his  own  life  to  make  her  happy 
with  the  man  she  did  love. 

"I  didn't  do  it  for  that  reason,"  exclaims  Dick  Dudgeon 
unhappily.  "I  don't  know  why  I  did  it!"  But  those  in  the 
secret  of  life  know  he  did  because  the  human  animal  likes 
to  be  dramatic  at  night  and  regret  it  in  the  morning. 

All  this  by  way  of  prelude  to  a  little  sentimental  bosh 
that  Thompson  Hartsell  played  for  himself  on  the  night  of 
finishing  his  version  of  "The  Parisians."  All  through  his 
reading  of  the  second  act  to  the  company  he  had  been  inter- 
rupted by  gales  of  laughter,  even  from  the  comedians,  who, 
as  a  rule,  make  it  a  point  to  impress  on  the  author  that  they 
tickle  the  public's  risibles  not  because  of  the  lines  he  wrote 
but  because  they  are  themselves.  Ledyard  stood  by,  glowing, 
and  Lottie  smiled  a  proud,  glad  smile.  She  was  the  first  to 
congratulate  him. 

"Tommy,  it's  sensational!  It's  sure  fire;  it's  great — the 
funniest  show  I  ever  heard.  I  knew  you  had  it  in  you." 

Tommy  snarled. 

She  became  instantly  conscious  of  her  error,  but  it  was  too 
late  to  retrieve.    However,  she  tried. 

"Of  course  this  kind  of  work  isn't  worthy  of  you.  But 
it's  a  stepping  stone  to  bigger  things.  Now  that  the  man- 
agers know  you  can  write,  it  will  give  them  confidence  in 
you ;  don't  you  see  ?" 

"I  do  see,"  he  returned  with  deliberate  scorn.  "I  see  that 
I've  sunk  to  doing  what  I've  ridiculed  others  for.  I've  written 
consummate  balderdash — utter  rot — absolute  piffle.  I'm  no 
better  than  a  woman  of  the  streets;  I'm  worse,  because  the 
mind  is  more  sacred  than  the  body.  I've  lost  my  self-respect. 
And  that's  what  you  call  'great' !" 

He  turned  toward  the  stage  door.  But  he  was  not  allowed 
to  escape  so  easily.  The  stars  of  the  show  had  been  waiting 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        219 

impatiently  to  congratulate  him  also;  and  Mandelbaum,  the 
manager,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  reading  from  the  dark 
auditorium,  took  charge  of  him  afterward,  led  him  to  his 
club  and  told  him  a  contract  for  the  book  and  lyrics  of  his 
next  musical  production  would  be  waiting  for  him  in  his 
(Mandelbaum's)  office  on  the  morrow  along  with  any  reason- 
able amount  of  advance  royalty  he  might  desire. 

"I  don't  know  why  you've  been  holding  out  on  us  so  long," 
said  the  manager  genially.  "I've  been  looking  for  a  man  like 
you  since  I  first  started  in  business." 

A  success!  Hartsell  thought  of  this  bitterly  as  he  turned 
into  an  obscure  cafe  on  a  side  street.  He  wanted  to  get 
drunk  and  forget  his  shame.  It  was  late;  Mandelbaum  had 
insisted  on  dinner  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  restaurant,  and  on 
much  champagne;  so  that  Hartsell  was  in  that  state  of  senti- 
mental melancholy  wherein  men  do  foolish  things.  He  wanted 
to  drink  himself  into  forgetfulness  among  strangers;  hence 
he  had  wandered  far  from  Curate's  and  similar  rendezvous 
of  the  people  of  his  kind.  A  failure,  with  the  consciousness 
of  great  things  within  him,  undone  only  because  of  a  sick 
world,  he  had  shone  in  such  places,  the  undisputed  king  of 
the  table,  pouring  out  wit  and  satire  for  the  appreciative. 
These  expected  from  him  some  day  a  play  or  a  book  that 
would  startle  the  world  by  almost  supernormal  cleverness, 
style,  philosophy  and  wisdom.  That  he  had  not  written  it  was 
only  because  he  scorned  to  throw  pearls  before  swine.  His 
lyric- writing  was  a  mere  means  of  livelihood;  they  did  not 
hold  that  against  him,  knowing  he  must  eat;  but  to  come 
before  them  with  this  sorry  musical  play — he,  of  all  men! 

Worst  of  all,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  almost  subconsciously, 
for  he  would  not  permit  his  brain  to  acknowledge  the  thought, 
he  knew  that  the  praise  of  "inferior  people" — the  performers 
and  the  manager  for  whom  "The  Parisian"  was  rewritten — was 
welcome  to  him,  gratifying,  actually  warming.  The  horrible 


220  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

suspicion  persisted  in  forcing  itself  upon  him  that  if  his  first 
work  had  been  popular  it  might  never  have  occurred  to  him 
that  he  was  a  superior  person;  doubtless  he  would  have  gone 
on  trying  to  please  the  public  and  considering  he  had  failed 
each  time  he  did  not,  instead  of  taking  as  a  criterion  the 
ukase  of  those  out  of  sympathy  with  the  public's  taste. 

Strive  to  banish  it  as  he  would,  another  thought  obtruded : 
that  it  would  afford  him  pleasure  to  see  thousands  of  mere 
people  in  ecstasies  over  his  work,  applauding  violently  and 
insisting  on  seeing  him  before  the  curtain.  There  would  be 
good  things  result,  too:  a  house  in  the  country,  a  motor  car, 
trips  to  Europe,  a  mind  unworried  by  the  need  of  petty  cash. 
He  could  surround  himself  with  beautiful  things  the  better 
to  be  inspired.  Then  he  laughed  harshly  again.  To  be  in- 
spired to  what?  To  doing  more  twaddle  of  this  sort?  He 
needed  nothing  but  a  stenographer  for  that;  the  clangor  of 
the  city  did  not  retard  such  puerile  thought. 

"But,"  something  argued,  "you  can  do  one  or  two  things 
like  that,  make  money,  and  then  settle  down  to  do  your  real 
work."  But  he  knew  this  was  sophistry;  that,  once  known 
and  popular  as  the  author  of  a  certain  sort  of  thing,  one's 
thoughts  and  ambitions  changed.  One  craved  popularity  as 
a  true  artist  craves  the  praise  of  his  peers.  One  needed 
luxury  as  a  true  artist  needs  the  consciousness  of  good  work 
well  done. 

He  struck  the  table,  attracting  the  attention  of  others  in 
the  room  in  which  he  sat,  muttered  an  order  to  a  waiter,  and 
then  told  himself  fiercely  that  he  would  be  no  such  hack. 
Let  Linthicum's  name  remain  as  author  of  the  "book."  He, 
Hartsell,  would  get  an  advance  of  royalty  from  Mandelbaum, 
refuse  his  other  contract,  and,  away  in  London  or  Paris,  live 
on  what  this  piece  would  bring  him  and  work  steadily  on  the 
novel  which,  started  a  year  before,  still  needed  the  devotion 
of  as  much  time  again  before  the  critics  of  the  Athen&um 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO 

and  the  French  reviews  would  hail  him  as  a  master  of  realistic 
prose. 

And  what  then?  Some  few  thousand  copies  would  be 
circulated  among  the  elect  in  letters;  some  praise  would  be 
received  from  great  writers  whom  he  worshiped,  and  he  would 
be  back  at  lyric-writing  again  to  make  a  living,  pointed  out 
by  the  theatrical  world,  his  own  world,  as  a  man  who  "wrote 
one  good  show  but  didn't  have  it  in  him  to  follow  it  up." 
Poverty-stricken  again  while  the  mud  from  the  wheels  of 
popular  writers'  motor  cars  splashed  his  ready-made  clothes, 
and,  as  he  was  to-day,  the  guest  of  luckier  men  whenever  he 
ate  in  a  decent  restaurant.  Worst  of  all — unknown  except 
to  a  few  scholars  and  critics  until  perhaps  some  fifty  years 
hence  when  he  would  be  "classic,"  if  he  had  the  courage  to 
go  on  writing  great  books  in  poverty.  Was  it  worth  while? 


IX 

THE  room  in  which  he  sat  was  long  and  low;  and  vines, 
flowers,  grapes  and  apples  covered  its  walls  and  ceilings,  con- 
cealing the  sources  of  light ;  an  imitation  of  a  Roman  garden 
tawdry  enough  when  done  on  a  larger  scale  downtown,  in 
this  place  absolutely  distasteful  to  such  as  Hartsell  in  a 
normal  frame  of  mind.  Women  sat  singly  and  in  couples 
at  the  little  tables  and  welcomed  masculine  advances  with 
seemingly  perpetual  smiles. 

One  of  them  paused  on  her  entrance  from  the  street  at 
Hartsell's  table,  and,  as  he  was  too  preoccupied  to  warn  her 
off  with  a  frown,  she  sat  down.  One  of  the  waiters  hurried 
to  ascertain  her  pleasure.  Hartsell  made  a  bored  motion  with 
his  hand,  meaning,  if  such  were  the  custom  of  the  place,  she 
might  order  as  she  liked,  and  told  the  man  to  bring  him  more 
whiskey. 


222  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"I'll  have  whiskey,  too,"  said  the  girl. 

The  waiter  eyed  her,  surprised.  It  is  not  the  custom  for 
girls  who  live  by  their  wits,  notwithstanding  all  the  false 
reputation  for  revelry  they  have,  to  take  anything  stronger 
than  water  colored  to  represent  creme-de-menthe  and  other 
drinks  that  can  be  sold  at  a  quarter,  one  half  of  the  price 
reverting  to  the  girl  in  such  places  as  this,  and  represented 
by  a  small  brass  check  which  the  waiter  hands  them  sur- 
reptitiously. 

But  the  girl  repeated  her  order  sharply.  On  his  way  to 
the  bar  the  waiter  informed  the  proprietor  that  "Sophie's  got 
the  blues  again;  she's  ordering  red-eye." 

"Make  it  half  cold  tea,  then;  she  gets  nasty  right  after 
her  crying  spells,"  directed  the  proprietor.  "I  suppose  Joe's 
fell  fer  that  crap  game  again  and  swung  one  on  her  from 
his  heel." 

In  places  of  this  type — the  first  cabarets  in  America  and 
dubbed  "honkatonks" — the  waiters  undertake  also  the  duties 
of  entertainers.  They  sing  two  types  of  songs:  the  first  of 
the  "twirling"  type  which  says  something  about  a  "bear,"  or 
a  "tuneful  harmo-nee";  the  second  a  species  of  sentimental 
ballad.  One  of  the  latter,  full  of  tonsorial  minors,  began 
after  Hartsell's  unwelcome  companion  had  swallowed  her 
drink.  Immediately  the  tears  stood  out  in  her  eyes. 

"I  guess  you  despise  me,  don't  you?"  she  began  fiercely 
to  the  astonished  writer.  "But  let  me  tell  you  if  we  was 
down  in  my  home  town  you'd  be  glad — yes,  and  proud — to 
be  seen  sitting  with  me.  You  betcha  you  would." 

"Look  here,"  said  Hartsell,  amused  out  of  his  melancholy ; 
"you're  not  going  to  pull  that  old  one  about  if  you  weren't 
in  this  life  half  of  Fifth  Avenue  would  be  calling  on  you?" 

"Yes,  and  they  would,  too,"  she  replied,  dabbing  at  her 
eyes  with  an  ornate  but  soiled  handkerchief. 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        223 

"What  doing — leaving  their  laundry?"  asked  Hartsell, 
laughing. 

She  became  violently  unquotable  (in  print)  but  the  lachry- 
mose ballad  was  too  much  for  her.  She  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands.  "If  you  knew  who  I  was  you  wouldn't  talk  thata 
way !"  she  sobbed.  "Why,  if  I  was  to  tell  you  my  real  name ! 
If  my  mother  knew  I  was  in  a  place  like  this — my  mother!" 

The  sentimental  song  ceased.  Another  singer  began  one 
of  a  different  variety: 

"Baby  look-ahere,  look-ahere,  look-ahere." 
Immediately  the  girl  looked  up  and  snapped  her  fingers. 
"What  is  it,  dear?    What  is  it,  dear?" 

she  chanted. 

She  forgot  Hartsell  for  the  hired  dancer  of  the  place,  with 
whom  she  was  soon  swaying  in  the  intricacies  of  the  "Texas 
Tommy." 

Hartsell  paid  his  check.  Outside  it  was  a  night  of  stars. 
He  looked  up  at  them,  took  a  long  breath,  shook  his  head 
in  wistful  astonishment. 

"I  laughed  at  her;  and  I  was  doing  the  same  sort  of 
thing  myself,"  he  murmured.  "Just  the  same  sort  of  thing. 
There  she  was,  self -proclaimed  lady,  regretting  a  life  for 
which  she  was  eminently  suited.  If  she  hadn't  embraced  it, 
she'd  probably  be  making  beds  and  sweeping  floors.  Here 
I  am,  self-proclaimed  genius,  regretting  the  first  work  I  have 
ever  done  well  enough  to  get  any  real  pay  for;  whereas,  if 
I  hadn't  done  it,  I  probably  would  be  writing  hack  lyrics  all 
my  life.  The  girl  has  by  imagination  and  distance  trans- 
formed the  lower-middle-class  home  she  came  from  into  the 
house  of  a  leading  citizen ;  I  have  kidded  myself  into  believing 
I  am  an  embryo  Balzac  or  de  Maupassant.  Our  cases  are 


224  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

precisely  similar — neither  she  nor  I  can  prove  it ;  if  her  pathos 
over  her  'wasted  life'  is  pathos,  so  is  mine;  and  as  I  laughed 
at  her  so  must  I  laugh  at  myself." 

And  he  did. 

Often,  in  later  years,  he  would  tell  people  how  that  girl 
had  "made"  him.  "I  hunted  her  up  afterward,  gave  her 
money  and  sent  her  to  her  'mother  old  and  gray.'  A  week 
or  so  later,  she  was  back  on  Broadway.  In  a  burst  of  con- 
fidence she  told  me  her  mother  had  eloped  with  the  iceman, 
'who  was  no  gentleman  and  did  not  know  how  to  treat  a 
l?dy' — meaning  herself — so  she  came  back  where  she  was  ap- 
preciated." 


X 

You  can  distinguish  the  Hartsell  home  on  Riverside  Drive 
without  any  trouble;  there  is  a  lawn  and  a  garden — both 
unique  in  a  location  where  land  is  sold  by  the  ounce — and  the 
house  itself  is  like  a  Florentine  villa.  Inside  it  is  a  treasure 
house  of  paintings,  bronzes  and  old  china.  Each  room  is 
faithful  to  some  particular  period  except  one  where  Hartsell 
dictates  or  pounds  the  typewriter.  On  its  walls  are  framed 
playbills  of  the  sixty-two  musical  shows  he  has  written,  and 
some  few  "dodgers"  or  "heralds" — little  square  pieces  of 
pasteboard  used  for  ashcan,  battue  and  debris  advertising, 
and  one  or  two  "eight-sheets,"  lithograph  parodies  of  the  face 
of  Carlotta  Alleyne,  "musical  comedy's  favorite  star,"  or, 
as  booking  managers  describe  her,  "the  sure-fire  box-office 
attraction." 

Perhaps  it  was  neither  chivalrous  nor  womanly  for  Lottie 
Allen  to  have  told  Tommy  Hartsell  that  it  was  she  who  had 
plotted  to  make  him  successful,  and  that  he  owed  everything 
to  her:  first,  for  teaching  him  to  find  himself;  second,  for 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         225 

directing  the  managers'  minds  toward  the  same  search.     He 
had  asked  her,  in  a  tired  way,  why. 

"Because  I  love  you,  Tommy,"  she  said  simply.  "I  wanted 
you  to  succeed  because  I  knew  I  was  going  to  succeed  myself, 
and  I  didn't  want  you  to  be  known  simply  as  the  husband 
of  a  famous  actress." 

"The  husband !"  he  had  ejaculated,  petrified. 

"You  know  you  like  me  as  well  as  you  like  anybody," 
she  returned.  "And  you've  got  to  marry  some  time.  And 
since  I've  done  everything  for  you — " 

She  had  begun  to  cry  softly. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,"  said  Hartsell  irritably. 

"Now  you're  successful,  you'll  never  know  whether  other 
girls  are  after  you  to  help  them  on  in  the  business,  or  because 
you've  got  money  now  and  can  give  them  things;  while  I — 
you  know  I  love  you.  And — what  do  you  want  in  a  woman 
that  I  haven't  got  ?  Everybody  says  I'm  pretty,  and  I've  made 
a  hit,  and  I'll  learn  whatever  you  want  me  to,  and  be  a  good 
'pal'  and—" 

"I  give  in,"  said  Hartsell,  laughing.  "I  guess  you're  a 
pretty  good  bet,  Lottie.  Come  here,  poor  little  thing,  and 
nestle  under  the  wing." 

He  raised  his  arm  so  she  could  put  her  head  under  it. 

"Well,"  he  had  said  in  a  gentle  raillery,  looking  down  at 
the  pretty,  tearful  face — "well,  poor  little  thing,  did  it  want 
her  Tommy  as  much  as  all  that?" 

She  had  responded  with  a  satisfied  sound,  which,  if  she 
were  not  so  feminine  and  attractive,  we  would  call  a  little 
grunt,  and  he  kissed  her;  whereupon  she  made  believe  to  purr 
like  a  pleased  kitten. 

As  for  Linthicum — Charles  Lester  Linthicum,  the  amateur 
Bohemian — you  may  read  how  he  tragically  discovered  her 
love  for  another  man ;  how  he  pleaded  that  he  would  "make 
her  care  for  him  in  spite  of  all" ;  how  a  well-groomed,  manly 


226  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

man  very  much  like  his  "clean-cut,  strong  and  silent"  heroes, 
was  reduced  to  a  pitiful,  sobbing  and — worst  of  all — disheveled 
and  womanly  bundle  of  nerves;  while  the  "Vampire"  sat 
by,  cold  and  unmoved,  even  a  little  bored,  and,  while  patting 
her  hair  preparatory  to  going  out  as  soon  as  she  was  rid 
of  him,  actually  hummed  a  little  tune  (from  "The  Parisians") 
— you  may  read,  we  repeat,  all  of  these  things  in  "The  Vam- 
pire Woman,"  conceded  by  all  the  shop-  and  school-girls, 
young  ladies  of  the  "uptown  (meaning  Harlem  and  the 
Bronx)  younger  set"  and  real  debutantes  ("downtown"  if  we 
must  say  it)  to  be  his  ablest  and  most  thrilling  novel,  and 
which  has  been  handed  by  many  a  mother  to  her  son  that 
he  may  see  how  heartless,  soulless  and  utterly  worthless  the 
stage  makes  a  woman. 

Yet  to  Hartsell,  this  same  soul-eating,  blood-sucking 
vampire  was  but  a  "poor  little  thing  which  is  to  come  and 
nestle  under  the  wing,"  a  sort  of  "well  done,  thou  good  and 
faithful  mental  inferior,  but  otherwise  more  or  less  attractive 
young  person."  It  is  simply  the  difference  between  the 
dramatic  viewpoint  and  the  human  one. 


II.  THE  PURPLE  PHANTASM 

f\BSERVE  the  beehive — a  moth  lies  dead  at  its  entrance; 
t    i    observe  its  splendid,  gorgeous  wings.     Yet  jar  from 
^-^     welcoming  a  beautiful  playfellow,  the  guardians  of 
the  gate  have  straightway  stung  her  to  death.     Observe  that 
bees  are  wise,  and  know  that  lovely  things,  like  ballet  dancers 
with  iridescent  skirts,  may  have  within  them  that  uncleanly 
spawn  that  rots  out  in  an  hour  the  lifework  of  the  szvarm. 
Observe,  also,  that  man  is  not  so  wise.    Like  the  bees,  he 
has  gates  to  guard,  outposts  of  the  spirit;  and  if  these  are 
left  unguarded  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  or  fame,  that  purple- 
winged  phantasm,  Passion,  flies  through  the  warderless  gate 
and,  in  a  single  moment,  a  life  of  palace-building  is  un- 
done. . 


OBSERVE  the  cases  of  the  boy  with  pretty  eyelashes — of 
Potter  Play  fair — Rose  Rhett — Guy  Bassity,  to  each  of  whom, 
at  the  brink  of  success,  passion  came;  and  so  absorbed  had 
they  been  in  building  palaces,  they  had  no  time  to  consider 
these  might  be  destroyed. 

First  of  all  let  us  consider  Rose  Rhett;  in  our  Broadway 
solar  system  she  is  the  moon  round  which  those  satellites,  the 
pretty-eyelashed  boy,  Playfair,  and  Bassity — wane  or  wax. 

She  was  not  always  of  Broadway — she  had  to  come  there 
by  wire-concurrent  orbits.  A  rowdy  open-air  honkatonk — 
drunken  men  throwing  dimes  and  quarters — waiters  slipping 
to  her  surreptitiously  brass  checks  representing  half  the  price 

227 


228  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

of  drinks  purchased  in  her  honor — these  constituted  her  first 
theatrical  experience. 

More  and  more  the  younger  generation  becomes  cognizant 
that  riches  and  honor  are  not  necessarily  allied.  Rose  Rhett's 
father  had  thought  so;  thus  at  fifty,  after  thirty-five  years' 
service  in  certain  mills,  discharged  for  incompetency,  he  had 
only  a  small  paid-up  insurance  policy  for  income.  So  Rose 
must  quit  her  training  for  that  Mecca  of  all  poor,  clever  girls 
— a  school  teacher's  place — and  work  in  mills,  too.  But  new 
ideas  were  abroad :  the  newspapers  and  magazines  were  point- 
ing out  that  great  fortunes  were  often  less  the  result  of 
great  brains  than  of  mean  ones.  Socialists  shrieked  on  street 
corners,  giving  detailed  histories  of  great  financial  highway- 
men: in  these  idealistic  frenzies  overlooking  selfishness,  the 
root  of  most  human  endeavors:  so,  instead  of  their  citations 
teaching  men  to  band  together  and  be  brothers  as  the  Socialists 
imagined  they  would,  they  but  uncovered  for  them  a  new 
fact — that  honesty  was  seldom  the  best  policy — if  one  would 
be  a  favorite  of  the  Golden  Gods. 

Thus  Rose  Rhett  read  in  her  favorite  Sunday  journals 
the  history  of  a  little  dancer  who  drew  two  Presidents' 
salaries  for  having  loved  a  king;  she  read  of  a  French  demi- 
mondaine  who  asserted  that  one  President's  salary  was  only 
sufficient  to  dress  one  really  smart  woman  for  one  year — and 
many  similar  statements  and  stories,  granted  more  space  than 
the  greatest  scientific  discovery — far  more  admiration  being 
given  these  light  ladies  and  their  famous  friends,  men  who 
seemed  to  spend  their  lives  hanging  jewels  on  fair  necks;  and 
thus  reading,  Rose,  lying  late  in  her  slum  bedroom  on  Sun- 
days, began  to  regard  her  hardworking  father  and  mother 
as  mentally  deficient  for  dedicating  their  pretty  daughter  to 
a  life  of  toil.  % 

Each  week  she  would  wait  eagerly  for  Sunday's  latest 
stories  of  fortune's  newest  favorites,  their  jewelry,  Pome- 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         229 

ranian  dogs,  "bijou  houses,"  sartorial  eccentricities,  theatrical 
triumphs ;  and  reading,  waited  her  chance ;  until  one  Monday 
morning  she  answered  a  published  call  for  "young  ladies  to 
sing  and  dance." 

They  were  required,  it  proved,  for  the  summer  season  at 
Eureka  Park.  They  must  be  on  duty  daily  for  "vaudeville," 
two  until  twelve,  and,  while  singing  and  dancing,  must  strive 
to  catch  the  eyes  of  as  many  drink-purchasers  as  possible — 
for  there  was  no  admission  fee — and  when  invited  must  order 
no  less  than  twenty-five  cents'  worth  of  drink:  to  encourage 
which  they  received  on  each  half  the  purchase  price — the 
drinks  they  were  commanded  to  order  being  water  colored 
with  green  to  pass  for  creme  de  menthe,  and  all  profit. 

No  respectable  girl  could  consider  the  job;  as  a  number 
of  girls  told  the  plain-spoken  cigar-chewing  owner  before 
departing  in  dudgeon. 

"Don't  want  'um  respectable,"  he  growled.  "But,"  said 
Rose,  nerving  herself,  "that's  all,  isn't  it?"  He  surveyed  her  in 
approval.  "That's  the  talk!  Sure,  it's  all,  s'far's  I'm  con- 
cerned. There  you  sit  under  ten  dollars'  worth  of  electricity 
an  hour — as  safe  as  if  God  had  you  in  His  pocket.  But  no 
screaming  or  fighting  jest  becuz  of  an  arm  around  you  or  a 
pinch  on  the  cheek.  Gi  'em  some  run  for  their  money — so 
long  as  they  sit  and  spend;  and  a  smart,  pretty  girl  like  you 
kin  tuck  away  a  half-century  every  pay  night  when  you  cash 
in  your  checks.  I  pays  fifteen  bucks  wages,  alone." 

Rose  had  realized,  with  a  sudden  inspiration,  her  supe- 
riority to  those  girls  who  had  insisted  on  "respectability." 
Let  them  run  back  to  their  five-dollar-a-week  jobs  and  maybe 
marry  some  "hick"  making  ten  or  twelve,  and  sweat  and 
stew  in  tenements  with  their  dirty  brats.  The  time  had  passed 
when  "poor  but  honest,"  "poor  but  respectable,"  had  any 
magic  power  to  move  her.  They  taught  ignorant  people  to 
be  those  things,  priests  and  parsons  and  school-teachers  did, 


830  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

and  then  were  glad  to  be  invited  to  dinner  with  rich  people 
who  hadn't  been  anything  of  the  kind.  .  .  . 

Men — that  was  a  woman's  job.  This  Eureka  Park  affair 
would  be  only  a  stepping  stone:  she  would  learn  how  to  face 
an  audience,  save  some  money  for  good  clothes,  then  betake 
herself  elsewhere.  It  was  better  to  go  to  school  outside  and 
burst  upon  Broadway  competent,  fascinating. 

It  required  just  such  a  strong  stimulant  to  go  through 
what  followed.  Her  first  appearance — how  weakly  she  had 
sung,  and  how  much  off  key!  But  someone  had  shouted  at 
her,  encouragingly,  that  it  was  "all  right,  kid";  and  his  ad- 
miring eyes  reminded  her  she  was  pretty  and  young  and 
well-shaped,  and  that  her  low-cut  short-skirted  pink  dress  and 
her  pink  silk  stockings  concealed  none  of  these  charms.  .  .  . 
How  hard  it  had  been  afterward  to  thread  the  long  aisles  of 
tables  and  chairs  with  those  stupid  oxen  leering  at  her  ankles ! 
But  she  had  set  her  teeth,  and  soon  the  shame  was  swallowed 
up  by  triumph  of  easy  victory.  Even  on  her  first  day,  she 
surpassed  all  Eureka  Park  records.  "Half  a  century?"  With 
her  wages,  she  was  never  to  pocket  less  than  sixty  or  seventy ; 
and  she  received  an  offer  from  every  visiting  manager  of 
burlesque  shows — whose  custom  it  is  to  make  the  rounds 
of  these  summer  park  "honkatonks"  in  hopes  of  discovering 
comedians  and  comely  choristers.  If  they  imagined,  however, 
that  their  shining  social  superiority  and  influential  powers 
commanded  Rose's  admiration,  they  soon  met  disconcerting 
rebuffs. 

"I  get  enough  of  that  out  there,"  she  panted  one  night,  as 
she  dealt  one  of  these  gentlemen  a  staggering  reward  for 
an  attempt  at  familiarity.  "I  hate  men — the  whole  lot  of 
you!"  Indeed,  her  duties  in  front,  once  learned,  were  ac- 
complished mechanically.  She  knew  the  sort  of  smile,  the 
tone  of  voice,  the  veiled  half-promise,  to  set  her  men  a-tingle, 
causing  them  to  buy  drink  after  drink,  crudely  imagining  her 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         231 

melting  under  alcoholic  influence — drinks  Rose  learned  how 
to  spill  dexterously,  unnoticed.  And  she  knew  how  to  pick 
her  men.  Gay  young  ribbon  clerks  and  such  never  became 
insolvent  by  spending  their  Saturday-night  dollars  on  her. 
Fascinating  young  gentlemen  ogled  her  in  vain.  She  picked 
the  sturdy  mechanics  and  small  storekeepers,  the  dullards  and 
the  middle-aged.  ...  As  her  envious  companions  said,  she 
seemed  to  smell  money."  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  signs  were 
obvious  after  a  little  study  to  anyone  with  brains;  or,  at  any 
rate,  the  signs  of  those  who  had  none,  or  who  did  not  mean 
to  spend  it;  at  least  among  the  simple  types  that  frequented 
Eureka  Park.  She  soon  yearned  for  subtler  game. 

But  she  was  to  find  one  cannot  be  game  at  all  and  be 
subtle:  the  wise  and  fools  are  curiously  alike  in  the  pursuit 
of  the  purple  phantasm.  .  .  . 

A  burlesque  show  carried  her  to  Broadway.  Six  months 
later  Potter  Playfair  told  her  he  was  a  caveman. 


II 

"A  CAVEMAN/'  Mr.  Playfair  repeated,  adding  a  sort  of 
low  growl  through  the  teeth  that  firmly  clenched  the  cigar. 
"I  go  in  for  elemental  things ;  my  plays  have  guts — GUTS/'  he 
added  in  Roman  letters.  "I  look  for  motives — raw  and  bleed- 
ing— and  I  write  plays  around  them.  Big  red-blooded  plays 
— primitive — primordial."  (He  had  recently  acquired  the 
latter  word  from  the  works  of  the  California  Kipling.)  "Yes, 
my  girl,  primordial.  To  hell  with  conventions !"  He  smashed 
them  all  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "To  hell  with  religion, 
education,  colleges — all  the  things  that  make  mollycoddles. 
Give  me  man  in  the  rough.  .  .  .  That's  the  man's  way — 
Playfair's  way." 

You  are  to  imagine  all  this  out  of  the  same  corner  of  the 


232  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

mouth  that  held  the  cigar,  the  eye  above  it  almost  permanently 
closed,  the  mouth  twisted  downward,  flattening  out  the  jowls 
into  a  heavy  chin.  You  are  to  imagine  clothes  of  loose,  heavy 
cloth  that  gave  their  wearer  an  appearance  of  bulk;  and,  in 
the  street,  a  sombrero  further  obscuring  that  luckless  left 
eye.  Rose  Rhett  seemed  to  imagine  and  to  admire.  Her 
hands  were  clasped;  her  eyes  held  artless  admiration. 

"I  never  met  a  man  like  you,"  she  said  dreamily. 

"And  yet — they  don't  understand  me,"  growled  Mr.  Play- 
fair  in  a  dissatisfied  voice.  He  told  her  he  was  then  engaged 
in  staging  at  his  own  expense  a  play  on  which  no  manager 
would  risk  money.  "A  play  about  a  man  like  me — a  real  man. 
He  comes  to  this  effete  East"  (Mr.  Play  fair  had  been  born 
in  Troy)  "and  he  makes  these  mollycoddles  jump  through 
hoops.  But  they  don't  appreciate  it,  these  managers — they're 
mollycoddles  themselves.  ...  I  don't  know  why  I'm  telling 
you  all  this — " 

"Isn't  there  such  a  thing  as  people  just  fitting  in?"  she 
asked.  "Understanding — well,  just  naturally — if  you  know 
what  I  mean — " 

He  regarded  her  with  gloomy  preoccupation.  "How  I  need 
somebody  who  understands!"  he  said.  "Not  vampires — 'the 
women  who  never  can  understand.'  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  said  Rose  softly.  "How  glad  it  makes  me  feel 
I've  met  a  man  who  understands  women!  It's  so  easy  for 
women  to  deceive  most  men.  But  a  man  like  you — a  big  man 
— sees  through  our  petty,  shallow  little  brains.  .  .  ."  She 
was  quoting  liberally  from  a  novel  she  had  read  recently. 

"Some  are  not  petty.  Some — "  But  the  great  thought 
could  not  find  ready  words.  "Some  understand,"  he  com- 
promised vaguely. 

"Some,"  was  her  wistful  response,  "yes,  but,  oh,  how  few! 
And  when  men  meet  them,  they're  so  soured  by  the  others 
they  don't  trust  them,  don't  give  them  their  due.  Not  that  I 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO  233 

am  complaining.  It  isn't  the  men's  fault."  .  .  .  And  feeling 
she  had  gone  far  enough  for  the  moment,  she  asked  him 
quickly  about  rehearsals. 

"I'm  going  to  let  her  understudy  the  lead,"  he  told  his 
stage-director  when  that  worthy  opened  reproachful  eyes  at 
this  superfluous  expense.  "She's  got  brains — we  need  some- 
body in  the  company  with  brains." 

Really,  he  was  just  as  easily  handled  as  the  others,  this 
first  famous  man  of  her  acquaintance.  Famous?  "Lucky" 
was  a  better  word.  What  had  Mr.  Playfair  that  any  average 
man  had  not? 


Ill 

HER  question  was  well  put.  It  was  the  trade,  not  the  man. 
Others  had  seen  fit  to  study  the  mechanics  of  steam  engineer- 
ing, gas  fitting,  plumbing.  Mr.  Playfair  had  learned  instead 
the  mechanics  of  the  stage,  and  successful  plays  are  more 
apt  to  be  a  question  of  mechanics  than  of  genius:  jobs  better 
suited  to  commonplace  men  than  extraordinary  ones  who 
have  ideas  that  play  sad  havoc  with  the  self-satisfaction  of  the 
bourgeoisie. 

One  of  Mr.  Playfair's  early  sorrows  had  been  that  he  was 
conventional  of  conduct  and  appearance — that  he  liked  the 
things  everybody  liked.  But  the  growth  of  his  literary  ambi- 
tions changed  all  this.  It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Playfair,  a 
quiet  little  woman  with  a  habit  of  babies,  had  developed 
vampirian  instincts — failing  to  conceal  from  him  a  deadly 
sense  of  humor,  urging  that  a  large  sombrero  was  funny 
upon  a  short  man  with  fat  legs:  begging  him  to  have  a 
care  how  he  scowled  and  spoke  harshly  to  car-conductors, 
who,  not  knowing  their  new  importance,  carried  them  past 
their  block;  or  tp  restless  but  heavily  built  men  who  jostled 


234  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

them  in  crowds — other  malefactors;  pointing  out  in  a  most 
disparaging  tone  that  his  hands  were  too  soft  to  give  a  good 
account  of  themselves  at  fisticuffs. 

At  which  he  would  frown  heavily  upon  her,  and  flattening 
his  jowls  upon  his  collar  to  thicken  his  naturally  thin  voice, 
would  speak  malevolently,  cruelly,  of  the  surgical  operation 
he  would  perform  upon  them.  And,  next  time,  his  voice  would 
be  fiercer  in  its  scorn  of  the  offender.  Soon  he  came  to  dis- 
like nothing  so  much  as  her  quiet  smile;  with  his  first  royal- 
ties, removing  himself  from  his  bookkeeper's  high  stool,  his 
native  town,  her  and  his  four  children — who  knew  him  after- 
ward only  as  a  holiday  visitor  and  a  writer  of  inadequate 
cheques. 

In  New  York,  he  had  no  wife  to  give  him  uneasiness  as 
to  the  possible  puerility  of  his  personal  prowess,  to  check  a 
flow  of  romantic  imagination  in  attire  and  accounts  of  ad- 
venture; nor  had  anyone  there  been  a  schoolmate  and  licked 
him  for  tattling  to  teacher  or  correcting  the  vagaries  of  luck 
at  marbles.  He  was  able  to  work  unhindered  at  the  greatest 
character  in  his  gallery  of  creations — Potter  Playfair,  the 
Caveman. 


IV 

ROSE,  meanwhile,  had  been  getting  ready  for  him.  Her 
intimate  experience  with  men  had  begun  early  after  her 
Broadway  arrival.  She  had  struck  town  at  an  ill  moment  for 
engagements — just  after  the  last  wave  of  autumn  productions 
had  washed  to  the  feet  of  the  Christmas  trees  and  before 
those  of  the  early  spring  were  about  to  go  into  rehearsal. 
Only  a  few  musical  pieces  were  getting  ready,  and  these  could 
choose  from  the  survivors  of  all  the  season's  shipwrecks; 
what  chance  for  a  girl  with  no  Broadway  acquaintance  and 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         235 

without  a  good  singing  voice?  But  before  her  small  savings 
left  from  the  purchase  of  striking-looking  millinery  had  van- 
ished, she  had  learned  of  the  Actors'  Club  on  a  street  in  the 
forties,  and  had  removed  her  belongings  to  a  hotel  opposite; 
in  a  lobby  window  of  which,  on  the  day  of  her  hegira,  we 
see  her — a  cat  at  a  mouse-hole;  and,  whenever  there  passed 
from  the  club  entrance  opposite  a  player  whom  she  recognized 
from  published  photographs  as  well  as  known  in  musical 
comedy,  she  might  be  observed  to  hasten  forth  and  pass  that 
player;  after  which  she  betrays  no  haste  at  all.  The  first 
actor  looks  curious,  half  starts  toward  her  at  her  shop  win- 
dow; perhaps  the  fact  that  the  window  contains  jewelry 
causes  reconsideration.  The  second,  though  she  does  not 
frown  at  his  steady  stare — is  it  that  he  remembers  that  speech, 
without  the  acquaintance  of  the  lady  spoken  to,  is  considered 
a  heinous  crime  by  police  judges?  .  .  .  And,  for  this  reason 
or  another,  all  the  others  failed  to  figure  as  Lotharios,  and, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  as  she  returned  for  the  eighth  time  to 
her  crow's  nest,  she  was  reduced  to  bowing  boldly  to  a  boy 
with  long  eyelashes  but  unknown  to  her  by  photographic 
fame,  who  had  only  the  doubtful  prestige  of  being  seen  quitting 
the  club. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Cassel?" — the  address  and  the  bow 
of  one  slightly  acquainted.  She  was  too  pretty  to  have  such 
a  misconception  of  his  identity,  so  he  hastened  to  explain 
and  to  "hope  that  is  no  handicap."  But,  no — she  couldn't 
think  of  it  ...  she  could  sink  right  through  the  ground  for 
her  stupid  blunder  ...  if  he  was  a  gentleman  he  would 
immediately  leave  her.  .  .  . 

They  dined  together  daily  after  that;  but  she  knew  there 
was  another  woman  from  the  fact  that  the  boy  always  chose 
out-of-the-way  restaurants ;  because  when  she  had  suggested 
he  use  his  influence  to  place  her  in  the  piece  in  which  he 
would  soon  begin  rehearsals,  he  had  quickly  hastened  to  assure 


236  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

her  the  piece  was  impossible — he  wouldn't  have  her  waste  her 
time — it  was  a  certain  sour  one — would  set  critical  teeth  on 
edge. 

In  nowise  deceived,  she  soon  forced  him  to  confess  that 
the  female  to  be  starred  liked  his  long  eyelashes.  So  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but,  on  the  night  of  this  revelation,  to  give 
herself  quite  deliberately,  and  without  the  slightest  passion; 
but  crying  aloud  in  a  choking  voice  that  he  must  not  persuade 
her  .  .  .  that  it  was  unfair  to  take  advantage  because  he 
knew  of  her  love  for  him  .  .  .  she  had  not  thought  he  was 
that  sort  of  a  man. 

The  next  day,  the  boy  threw  to  the  winds  the  "sure-fire" 
part  that  would  have  won  him  golden  opinions  from  the 
majority  of  those  critical  gentlemen  who  think  actors  write 
their  own  parts.  After  a  scene  as  dramatic  as  in  any  play — 
an  actor  and  an  actress  let  loose  on  an  "I  love  another"  scene, 
he  rang  down  the  curtain  on  a  no  longer  youthful  favorite 
of  the  public  prostrate  on  a  sofa,  hieing  him  from  thence  to 
agencies,  where,  having  some  little  reputation,  he  was  en- 
gaged for  a  commonplace  juvenile  in  a  Viennese  operetta,  in 
which,  as  Rose  had  intimated,  they  could  be  together — 
"dearest."  Before  signing  his  contract,  he  made  "dearest"  a 
proviso. 

Through  him,  Rose  met  the  actors  and  managers  of  his 
acquaintance :  no  more  out-of-the-way  places  now,  but  Curate's 
and  Sydenham's,  where  she  could  learn  to  know  celebrities 
by  their  nicknames.  But,  it  appeared,  luck  had  deserted  the 
pretty  boy,  who  laid  it,  superstitiously,  at  the  door  of  his  in- 
gratitude to  the  lady  who  had  given  him  his  chance  when  an 
amateur,  his  first  chance:  had  advanced  him  by  rapid  stages, 
and  .  .  . 

"Why  don't  you  go  back  to  your  old  lady  then  ?"  Rose  would 
ask  scornfully;  and  in  wild  despair — for  his  inamorata's  love 
grew  cold  as  his  ill-luck  increased — he  would  poetize  wildly 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        237 

and  dramatically:  the  world  well  lost  with  her  in  his  arms 
.  .  .  such  things  must  atone  for  the  utter  failure  of  the  operetta 
after  eight  weeks'  rehearsals  and  ninteen  consecutive  per- 
formances ;  atone  for  his  failure  to  obtain  other  paying  work, 
for  the  abnormal  hit  his  successor  had  achieved  with  the  dis- 
carded part,  and  the  rumor  that  he  would  soon  be  co-starred 
with  the  discarded  lady. 

Rose  was  glad  when  the  exigencies  of  the  privy  purse  took 
him  to  the  only  opening — a  stock  "lead"  in  Louisville.  No, 
she  would  not  go  with  him  "and  be  a  burden" ;  she  must  find 
a  position  for  herself  and  he  must  "save" ;  and  they  would 
be  reunited  and  solvent  in  the  autumn.  He  wrote  her  a 
hundred  despairing  folios ;  and,  until  she  met  Playfair  and 
because  the  room  rent  must  be  paid,  she  answered  daily. 

The  pretty  boy  never  got  back  to  Broadway:  his  actorial 
pride  prevented  taking  on  unimportant  juveniles  again,  he 
who  had  been  the  object  of  the  Louisville  matinee  girls'  ad- 
miration. The  purple  phantasm  had  met  him  in  mid-ocean: 
— he  must  thereafter  be  a  Flying  Dutchman  who  could  never 
make  the  right  shore. 


CORRESPONDINGLY,  it  was  so  with  Potter  Playfair.  Given 
another  year  unimpeded  by  personal  distractions,  he  would 
have  been  wealthy.  The  tide  of  just  his  kind  of  middle-class 
melodrama  was  high,  and  he  rode  on  the  early  wavelets.  The 
failure  of  his  "social  drama" — the  invasion  of  Fifth  Avenue 
by  the  hairy  man — would  have  taught  him  not  to  produce 
plays  deemed  impossible  by  all  managers;  those  gentlemen 
being  fair  judges  of  the  sort  of  mediocrity  that  will  make 
much  money.  Chastened,  he  would  have  returned  to  his 
melodrama  and  to  other  men's  ideas;  but,  as  it  was,  he  ha,d 


238  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

a  further  handicap:  an  unknown  girl  upon  whom  he  insisted 
as  the  leading  lady;  and  when  the  new  piece  was  given  a 
provincial  try-out  with  her,  and  she  demonstrated  she  needed 
years  of  experience,  the  man  behind  the  bank-roll  gave  as 
ultimatum  another  leading  lady  or  no  New  York  premiere 
— driving  Playfair  into  his  celebrated  caveman  portrayal  and 
an  offer  to  buy  back  the  production  rights,  thus  becoming  his 
own  producer  again. 

Rose  had  realized  the  justice  of  the  manager's  contention: 
realized  the  play  was  as  saffron  as  any  of  the  Fourteenth 
Street  tribe;  realized  that  there  had  been  only  a  temporary 
revival  of  interest  in  such  pieces,  the  public  having  sickened 
of  "problems"  and  imitations  of  Oscar  Wilde;  realized,  be- 
cause she  read  the  leading  periodicals  for  "culture,"  that  a 
nugget  of  cheap  sensation  could  be  so  polished  with  realistic 
acting,  gorgeous  scenery  and  lights  that  it  would  seem  virgin 
gold.  It  was  to  ride  in  the  wake  of  the  original  discoverer 
of  this  fact  that  a  manager  had  accepted  Playfair's  first  play, 
put  an  expert  craftsman  to  work  teaching  the  author  to  give 
rubber-stamp  villains  and  heroes  natural  dialogue,  and  had 
engaged  an  all-star  cast.  So  with  the  other  Playfair  successes. 

Rose  knew  this  new  one  was  utterly  impossible  with  an 
amateur  leading  lady  and  other  actors  such  as  Playfair  would 
engage:  he  saw  no  necessity  for  expensive  protagonists — "the 
village  choir  can  give  'Down  on  the  Suwanee  River/  "  was 
his  favorite  contention.  So  it  was  with  utter  selfishness  that 
she  encouraged  his  insurgency.  She  knew  the  average  news- 
paper critic  would  blame  the  play;  not  a  pretty  girl;  mean- 
while her  pictures  as  leading  lady  would  adorn  theater  and 
hotel  lobbies  and  magazine  covers,  would  be  reproduced  in 
every  illustrated  periodical  in  the  country.  Fame!  Worth 
dollars,  too.  Let  the  play  fail — which  it  accordingly  did. 

But  for  a  few  weeks  on  the  strength  of  his  former  hits 
it  drew  small  audiences,  and  Playfair  kept  paying  losses  and 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        239 

advertising  it  widely  as  the  "season's  first  success" — "with 
Rose  Rhett  in  her  great  impersonation  of  Selina  Sue" — this 
latter  at  her  insistent  demands :  any  demand  of  hers  was  law 
to  the  caveman. 

He  was  no  longer,  however,  the  caveman  with  her.  Once 
he  had  welcomed  the  purple  phantasm,  she  had  ceased  to  be 
the  woman  who  "understood."  True,  she  still  salved  his  pride 
by  pretending  to  believe  in  his  greatness  and  in  his  primitive- 
ness — that  cost  nothing,  and  she  knew  hurt  vanity  was  a 
terrible  enemy  to  usurping  phantasms.  But  she  allowed  him 
no  assurance  of  a  lifelong  love,  showing  decided  interest  in 
the  leading  man  of  the  company,  answering  vivaciously  letters 
from  a  more  noted  brother  author,  encouraging  a  reporter  who 
came  to  interview  her.  Also  she  smiled  when  well-known 
citizens  occupied  boxes — and  often  they  sent  her  flowers  and 
candy,  which  Playfair  would  pitch  into  the  stage-door  alley, 
grinding  his  teeth  and  tearing  at  his  scanty  hair.  He  even 
went  so  far  as  to  discharge  the  leading  man  and  threaten  the 
reporter. 

All  of  which  made  it  easy  for  Rose  to  feather  her  nest. 
She  impressed  on  him  that  much  jewelry  could  hang  about 
her  neck  if  she  listened  to  the  importunities  of  admiring  box- 
occupants.  She  called  his  attention  to  the  motor  cars  of  other 
girls:  how  cheerfully  would  a  certain  manufacturer  bestow 
one  on  her  were  she  his  instead  of  Playfair's.  She  told  of  an 
utterly  fictitious  offer  of  a  large  salary  from  a  Chicago  man- 
ager— this,  she  encouraged  Playfair  to  think,  a  preparatory 
step  to  more  personal  offers.  Thus,  in  addition  to  the  expense 
money  for  their  joint  apartment,  her  modiste's,  milliner's  and 
other  bills,  Rose  soon  had  many  huge  solitaires,  always  con- 
vertible into  cash,  her  car,  and  savings  accounts  in  several 
banks.  And  Playfair  strained  personal  credit  to  the  breaking 
point. 

Worst  of  all — for  this  held  no  return  for  expenditure — 


240  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

his  wife  had  sued  him  at  the  height  of  his  earning  capacity, 
naming  Rose  as  co-respondent,  and  had  been  adjudged  alimony 
founded  on  the  income  of  those  years  when  he  had  successful 
plays  running.  Whereas,  now,  he  had  none.  All  in  all,  he 
knew  he  would  be  a  bankrupt  unless  some  desperate  coup 
were  made.  Yet  he  had  neither  the  inspiration,  the  con- 
fidence nor  the  time  to  write  another  play.  And  he  could 
write  only  plays.  Hearing  him,  night  after  night,  groaning 
by  her  side,  watching  him  in  the  early  morning  hours  sit  by 
the  open  window,  head  between  his  palms,  Rose  saw  she  was 
killing  the  golden-egg  layer;  and,  while  his  sufferings  moved 
her  not  in  the  least,  this  goose  was  valuable  and  must  live. 
Giving  the  matter  urgent  thought,  she  suggested  vaudeville: 
Miss  Rose  Rhett,  late  star  of  "The  Heart  of  the  Wolf,"  in 
"So-and-So-So-and-So,"  the  first  contribution  to  vaudeville  of 
the  famous  playwright,  Potter  Playfair,  author  of  those  suc- 
cesses of  the  century,  "Mated  with  an  Eagle,"  "Iron  Hands," 
"Red  Blood  and  Blue,"  etc.,  etc.  The  luster  of  his  name  was 
not  yet  dimmed  with  vaudeville  audiences;  the  act  would 
command  a  high  price;  she  would  be  able  to  impress  them 
with  her  own  fame  through  the  mere  juxtaposition  of  Play- 
fair's  name  and  hers.  A  success — and  she  knew  her  lack  of 
art  would  be  no  handicap  here — she  had  only  to  be  careful 
to  select  conventional  heroics  or  coarse  comedy  construction 
by  vaudeville  "sure-fire"  authors;  and  she  could  continue  at 
a  high  salary,  without  any  further  assistance. 


VI 

VAUDEVILLE  audiences  had  just  progressed  to  the  point  of 
appreciating  the  discarded  fashions  of  the  legitimate  stage, 
when  misfortune  turned  to  other  business  and  let  Playfair 
alone  for  a  while.  The  playlet  that  would  have  been  laughed 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         241 

off  by  Playfair's  former  audiences  created  a  sensation  with 
his  new  one;  but  Rose  was  considered  more  responsible  than 
he,  and  was  approached  by  many  booking  agents  with  flatter- 
ing offers.  So  at  last  she  had  accomplished  her  purpose :  she 
was  no  longer  dependent  upon  anyone's  favor;  she  could 
sign  to-morrow  contracts  for  two  years'  continuous  booking. 
In  vaudeville  it  is  names  that  count;  material  is  easily  ob- 
tained from  any  number  of  words-and-music  mongers  who 
can  write  sure-fire  stuff  for  their  unintelligent  audiences  in 
a  purely  perfunctory  manner;  the  difficulty  is  to  do  the  acci- 
dental thing  that  will  make  the  hit  and  command  the  salary. 
.  .  .  She  no  longer  needed  Playfair  nor  anyone. 

And,  for  the  first  time  since  that  Monday  morning  when 
she  went  to  Eureka  Park  instead  of  to  the  mills,  she  relaxed. 
She  was  tired  of  posing,  tired  of  being  a  lady,  weary  of 
pretending  affection  every  time  she  wanted  a  new  hat,  fed 
up  with  listening  sympathetically  to  ambitions  and  affectations 
in  order  to  negotiate  an  extra  amount  of  spending  money; 
had  had  enough  of  calculating  the  effect  of  every  word, 
gesture,  action,  .  .  .  everything,  as  a  matter  of  business. 
Now  that  she  had  achieved  her  ambition,  she  wanted  pleasure. 
Before,  she  could  do  nothing  that  would  offend  the  ethics 
of  men.  Now  that  she  had  no  need  to  transmute  their  ad- 
miration into  bank  accounts,  they  could  think  what  they  liked ; 
and  she  plunged  into  pleasure  as  boldly  as  she  had  into  busi- 
ness, overlooking  no  possibilities,  playing  now  for  the  attention 
of  the  sort  of  males  whom,  hitherto,  she  had  avoided — those 
attractive  to  the  women  of  Advertisement  Alley  because  of 
notorious  reputations,  handsome  faces,  evil  minds.  Eluding 
Playfair  on  all  possible  occasions,  she  accompanied  them  to 
the  town's  hidden  dissipations — the  rathskellers  where  are 
forbidden  dances  and  songs,  where  people  speak  openly,  even 
proudly,  of  forbidding  vices:  back  rooms  where  cocain  and 


241  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

heroin  circulate  as  freely  as  beer:  all  this  she  found  novel 
and  amusing.  She — in  a  phrase — yearned  for  thrills. 

Poor  Playfair  realized  none  of  this  iniquity — only  knew 
that  her  usual  hour  for  returning  home  was  approximating 
daybreak.  Then  one  morning  she  was  absent  from  breakfast, 
and  he  did  not  see  her  until  she  reported  at  the  matinee; 
when,  in  desperation  and  dismay,  he  relapsed  into  a  frayed 
caveman  portrayal;  which  was  greeted  with  mirth  long  con- 
cealed. A  painful  scene  ensued,  in  which  she  saw  a  naked 
soul — and  what  a  poor  pitiful  thing  it  was;  so  poor  and  pitiful 
that  she  forgave  him  his  bad  man's  sombrero,  the  cigar  be- 
tween clenched  teeth,  the  flattening  of  jowls,  heavy  chin 
and  voice.  The  poor  fellow  had  done  all  these  things  for 
fear  someone  would  discover  he  had  a  woman's  soul. 

But  now  that  he  was  to  lose  her,  all  the  barriers  went 
down;  and  she  saw  the  boy  who  had  run  to  mother,  who  had 
taken  vengeance  for  the  insults  and  rough  treatment  of  other 
boys  by  writing  tales  of  knightly  prowess  and  bloody  adven- 
ture, in  all  of  which  he,  the  hero,  made  short  work  of  his 
cowardly  enemies :  saw  the  little  man  who  had  continued  those 
dreams  on  a  bookkeeper's  stool  and  at  night  had  lived  them 
and  put  them  into  plays;  who  had  at  length  timidly  ventured 
to  create  out  of  his  own  poor  clay  one  of  the  characters  he  had 
ever  longed  to  be. 

In  his  boyhood,  when  he  had  come  wildly  weeping  to  his 
mother's  knee,  she  had  wiped  away  the  tears  and  taken  him 
into  her  arms.  But  there  was  no  one  now,  and :  "Oh,  God !" 
he  sobbed.  "Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!" 

And  then:  "I'll  do  anything  .  .  .  only  tell  me  .  .  .  any- 
thing. I'll  work  twice  as  hard — I'll  give  you  everything.  Only, 
don't  leave  me — oh,  for  God's  sake  don't — don't,  don't  leave 
me!  Rose,  my  Rose,  mine,  you  can't  be  so  cruel  when  I 
love  you  so  .  .  ." 

And,  in  the  end,  "Oh,  God !"  he  shrieked,  throwing  him- 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO 

self  down  full  length  before  her.  "Oh,  God!  ...  Oh,  God!! 
Oh,  God ! ! !" 

It  was  eight  months  later  that  she,  face  downward  on  a 
bed  in  a  London  hotel,  her  rifled  jewel  box  and  ravished  purse 
nearby,  shrieked  out  just  these  same  words. 


VII 

GUY  BASSITY,  the  rifler  and  ravisher,  had  made  a  business 
of  women  just  as  she  had  of  men ;  and,  searching  for  someone 
who  would  lead  her  into  that  wonderland  of  the  senses  of 
which  she  had  seen  so  much  written,  heard  so  much  talk — 
Rose  had  been  attracted  to  him  by  the  stories  of  his  fascina- 
tion: how  a  famous  prima  donna  had  succumbed  at  a  single 
meeting,  how  some  young  heiress  had  to  be  sent  away  to 
keep  Mr.  Bassity  out  of  the  family — while  for  ordinary  con- 
quests, there  were  a  dozen  women  of  Rose's  acquaintance 
who  telephoned  in  vain.  She  had  been  intensely  proud  that 
she  had  been  seen  with  him/three  nights  running.  Then  she 
became  one  of  the  brigade  of  reproachful  telephoners.  Ever 
and  again  he  would  relent  and  come  to  a  special  dinner  at 
her  apartment;  but  finally  he  told  her  frankly  he  could  not 
afford  theaters  and  restaurants.  As  she  made  no  comment  on 
this,  he  came  no  more  to  dinner;  until  she  bethought  herself 
in  desperation  to  explain  that  she  had  engaged  theater  seats. 
Finding  this  effectual,  she  loaned  him  her  purse  and  sug- 
gested supper  afterward.  Whereupon,  he  became  immedi- 
ately gay,  convulsed  her  with  cynical  stories  and  impressed 
upon  her  his  weariness  of  women. 

Perhaps  the  purple  phantasm,  lurking  at  the  guarded  gate, 
got  its  first  chance  to  wedge  in  its  way  when  Rose  determined 
she  would  show  Sir  Egotist  that  here  was  one  with  whom  he 
would  not  get  the  chance  to  grow  weary.  Then  tears  of 


244  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

humiliation  when  he  bade  her  good-night  at  the  downstairs 
door  resolved  her  to  make  him  love  her  desperately,  then  to 
discard  him  as  coolly  as  she  had  Playfair.  How  she  would 
laugh  then  at  this  self-proclaimed  conquerer  of  women! 

And,  as  a  result,  she  now  lay  weeping  in  that  London 
hotel.  What  easy  game  she  had  been  for  him;  what  insults 
she  had  endured,  what  blows ;  with  every  one  loving  him  more 
fiercely,  willing  to  accede  to  anything  sooner  than  that  the 
other  eagerly  waiting  women — of  whom  he  never  forbore 
telling  her — should  snatch  him  away.  For  Bassity — although 
he  bore  no  resemblance  to  a  caveman,  being  instead  rather 
foppish  in  appearance — knew  how  to  arouse  in  women  the 
same  terror  that  the  character  Playfair  portrayed  so  badly 
aroused  in  his  mate.  Nothing  was  too  evil  if  it  proved  him 
their  master:  no  speech  was  too  harsh,  no  oath  too  vile,  no 
blow  too  hard,  to  teach  them  not  to  contest  him  in  either  word 
or  deed.  He  beat  down  the  bulwarks  of  their  self-esteem  and 
made  them  think  themselves  even  less  important  than  they 
were:  while  correspondingly  increasing  their  belief  in  his 
superiority;  moreover,  he  knew  instinctively  that  a  woman 
feels  some  of  the  passionate  pain  of  childbirth  in  the  blows  of 
her  beloved.  He  knew  all  these  things,  not  that  he  was  by 
nature  masterful,  but  because  he  had  enough  of  the  feminine 
in  his  own  nature  to  know  unerringly  what  they  thought  and 
why  they  thought  it:  paying  small  attention  to  anything  said 
or  done,  as  indexes  of  character. 

So,  when  he  struck  Rose  the  first  time  and  she  had 
screamed  out  her  hatred  and  bade  him  never  to  speak  to  her 
again,  he  had  smiled  and  gone  his  way;  and  in  a  few  hours 
she  was  telephoning,  to  find  he  was  not  at  his  rooms.  The 
picture  of  him  in  another  woman's  arms  had  arisen  to  her 
tortured  brain:  had  stood  between  her  and  sleep.  To  banish 
it,  she  took  the  one  chance  of  disproval:  telephoned  every 
restaurant,  cafe,  rathskeller  and  "joint"  he  frequented;  and, 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         245 

finally  locating  him,  wept  tears  of  thankfulness.  So  he  re- 
turned to  her,  knowing  he  was  master  at  last.  .  .  .  Strange 
that  Rose  did  not  see  he  was  pursuing  almost  precisely  the 
same  policy  as  hers  with  Playfair.  But,  just  as  the  purple 
phantasm  had  banished  the  playwright's  brain  then,  now  it 
was  hers  that  was  banished ;  passion  sees  nothing,  understands 
nothing. 

Bassity  had  finally  tired  of  her  just  as  she  had  of  Playfair; 
but  he  had  been  less  pitiless:  had  gone  while  she  was  at  the 
theater,  leaving  gaping  purse  and  empty  jewel  box  to  tell  their 
own  story — he  had  advised  her  not  to  bank  her  salary  when 
they  came  to  England,  but  to  keep  it  in  cash  until  their  return 
to  America,  saving  exchange  rates;  and  he  had  persuaded 
her  not  to  take  her  jewels  to  the  theater — she  must  remember 
how  dressing-rooms  were  robbed :  all  this  in  anticipation  of 
a  "getaway"  when  the  amount  of  cash  should  be  large 
enough.  And,  while  she  sobbed  out  her  "My  God !  my  God !" 
Bassity  was  on  the  Dover  boat,  headed  for  Calais  and  Paris. 


VIII 

MOST  voyageurs  have  a  hazy  idea  that  when  they  have 
visited  Maxim's  and  the  Abbaye,  they  have  exhausted  all 
nocturnal  Parisian  possibilities.  Really,  the  Abbaye  is  the 
thing  only  directly  after  the  theater,  then  Fyssher's,  Maxim's 
around  three,  and  afterward  there  are  the  rowdy  ones.  Bassity 
knew  this  much,  and  the  early  morning  of  the  next  day — he 
had  left  on  a  matinee  train — found  him  in  the  Royale,  chuck- 
ling over  his  new  freedom  and  a  plentifully  provided  future. 
The  scene  suited  his  unruly  emotions.  He  had  no  longer  to 
play  the  superior  person,  to  profess  a  lack  of  interest  in 
pleasure.  Here  he  could  give  way  to  any  fancy;  he  was 
unknown,  surrounded  by  just  the  sort  of  women  he  liked  best, 


246  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

whom  he  could  have  and  discard  at  will,  with  whom  he  need 
play  no  game.  He  might  drink  deeply,  too — a  sensation  he 
loved ;  but  always  he  had  conquered  it  when  on  business  bent : 
a  drunken  man  says  endearing  things;  foolish  things;  betrays 
himself ;  lacks  masterfulness. 

In  New  York,  when  he  had  wanted  so  to  indulge,  he 
had  slipped  away  to  lower  resorts  than  those  in  the  Broadway 
ken;  and,  among  the  women  frequenters  of  such  places,  was 
considered  a  good  investment.  He  knew  and  rather  enjoyed 
this;  pretending  to  believe  in  their  endearments  and  in  their 
sad  stories;  perfectly  conscious  of  their  attempts  to  rob  him; 
checkmating  them  with  glee,  even  in  his  drunkenest  moments ; 
and,  when  he  bade  them  good-night,  with  a  drunken  laugh 
sent  his  love  to  "Bert"  or  "Ed."  .  .  . 

He  had  not  intended  on  the  night  of  his  arrival  to  dis- 
sipate: it  had  been  too  late  to  hire  a  safety-deposit  box,  and 
he  had  his  treasures  upon  his  person;  to  hand  them  over  to 
the  safe  keeping  of  a  concierge,  a  hall  porter,  was  too  risky 
for  one  who  had,  if  anything,  too  low  an  estimate  of  the  price 
a  man's  honesty  could  withstand.  But,  having  heard  of 
Apaches,  he  had  secured  himself  against  such  by  having  a 
policeman  pick  him  a  chauffeur  guaranteed,  one  who  had 
stood  the  test  of  years  on  that  Capucines  corner;  and  that 
chauffeur  had  been  told  to  wait  at  every  place  visited:  he 
was  waiting  outside  the  Royale  now. 

Bassity  had  heard  of  Apaches,  yes,  just  as  other  Americans 
had  heard  of  "gunmen":  conceptions  at  which  he  had  often 
sneered  and  at  their  inspiration,  pictures  in  popular  magazines 
of  low  lurking  fellows,  collarless,  unshaven.  Yet  he  was 
willing  to  believe  in  the  French  Apache  pictures,  in  the  cordu- 
roy-skirted, bandanna-bloused  girls,  their  men  with  red  necker- 
chiefs and  heavily  visored  caps  drawn  low.  Consequently,  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  suspect  that  the  cabaret  dancer  he 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         247 

admired,  and  her  poetical-looking  admirer,  were  down  on 
Monsieur  the  Prefect's  list  as  of  that  tribe. 

She  was  Spanish — just  as  the  tango  dancer  at  the  Cafe 
de  Paris  was  South  American:  he  being  from  Brooklyn,  she 
from  Belleville.  She  was  not  there  to  capture  men  except 
so  far  as  they  might  be  encouraged  to  contribute  to  her  plate, 
to  pay  for  her  supper  and  champagne.  Puinpinesse's  poetry 
sought  to  be  like  Villon's  in  all  but  the  "Grosse  Margot" 
period;  he  was  dainty  as  to  what  money  he  took.  So  al- 
though she  danced  before  Bassity's  table  in  hope  of  more  than 
ordinary  contribution,  she  had  had  her  supper,  and  she  shook 
her  head  at  the  invitation  of  the  second  glass  he  had  the 
waiter  fill.  Bassity  observed  then  that  an  exception  had  been 
made  in  favor  of  the  poetical-looking  chap — the  custom  being 
that  wine  must  be  served,  a  custom  complied  with  at  all  tables 
except  where  stood  the  poet's  absinthe;  from  which  it  was 
easy  for  one  acquainted  with  the  etiquette  of  fast  society  to 
deduce  their  relationship. 

Which  made  it  all  the  better — to  snatch  her  away  and  force 
her  to  pretend  sudden  infatuation  for  a  stranger,  all  the  while 
racked  lest  "dearest"  console  himself  with  arms  ever  wel- 
coming— Bassity  knew  all  women  believe  "dearest"  is  des- 
perately desired  by  others  most  fascinating:  a  delusion 
"dearest"  does  his  best  to  promote  and  preserve. 

He  had  a  savage  pleasure  in  the  knowledge  that  the  mere 
sight  of  his  wealth  would  bring  about  this  triangle,  these 
conflicting  emotions.  To  watch  their  working-out,  all  the 
while  pretending  stupidly  to  believe  in  her:  to  force  her  to 
laughter  and  dancing  and  embracing  when  her  heart  was 
heavy;  these  things  were  what  he  would  have  described  as 
"water  on  his  wheel"  .  .  .  and  so  was  ostentatious  about 
calling  back  the  waiter  to  pay  him,  displaying  a  large  packet 
of  English  banknotes  before  he  drew  out  a  handful  of  gold. 

Had  he  seen  the  poet's  knee  knock  against  hers  at  that 


248  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

moment,  Bassity  might  have  reconsidered.  He  was  going  on 
the  theory  of  appearances,  which  he  would  never  have  done 
in  his  own  country  where  he  knew  savage  clubbers  of  citizens 
at  elections,  professional  thugs  in  political  pay,  who  often 
wore  eyeglasses  and  silk  shirts;  the  Playfairs  were  more  apt 
to  look  like  pirates.  But  the  poet  make-up  was  associated  in 
his  mind  with  peaceable — nay,  piffling — instincts.  He  did  not 
know  that  in  Belleville  bars  the  Villon  legend  persists:  that 
even  the  Parisian  lower  classes  have  a  genuine  appreciation 
of,  and  pride  in,  their  national  literature,  and  that  poetry  often 
inflames  them  into  desperate  deeds,  even  into  revolutions. 

He  had  once  defined  a  "sucker"  as  one  who  played  another 
man's  game.  He  did  not  realize  he  was  now  doing  just  that. 
The  purple  phantasm  had  lured  him  into  imagining,  for  all 
their  different  language  and  customs,  he  could  read  nature 
as  readily  here  as  in  his  own  country — a  belief  responsible 
for  the  wealth  of  "wire-tappers,"  who  would  be  immediately 
distrusted  by  many  victims  if  their  profession  had  really  any- 
thing to  do  with  tapping  wires. 

As  a  result  of  his  carelessly  displayed  wealth,  a  conversa- 
tion ensued  between  poet  and  dancer,  carried  on  at  first  in 
tones  so  very  low  that  not  even  those  nearby  could  hear;  but 
the  frown  on  the  poet's  face  assured  Bassity  of  the  correct- 
ness of  his  analysis;  and,  when  their  voices  rose  high  enough 
to  be  heard,  anyone  knowing  the  argot  would  have  under- 
stood that  the  poet's  frown,  now  a  scowl,  was  significant  of 
his  speech,  the  dancer's  anxious  half-smile  of  pleading,  also. 
Followed  a  furious  quarrel  and  the  poet's  departure:  then, 
as  the  firebrand  had  foretold,  she  came  to  him  with  a  forced 
smile  and  put  an  arm  around  his  neck:  her  voice  declaring 
adoringly  that  he  was  "trts  chic,"  with  many  little  affectionate 
slang  phrases:  "petit  cochon" — "mechant" — "petit  chameau" 
.  .  .  finally  yielding  to  his  importunities.  But  he  must  wait 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         249 

until  her  time  was  up ;  she  must  dance  every  quarter-hour  until 
four. 

Then,  because  of  her  position  at  the  place,  her  gentle 
ways,  her  choice  of  a  poet  lover,  Bassity,  who  hated  waste, 
perceived  it  was  useless  to  pay  his  cabman  to  wait  any  longer, 
so  descended  and  dismissed  him;  and,  an  hour  or  so  later, 
descended  again,  entering  a  cab  that  came  forward  at  the  sight 
of  the  pair. 

Once  within,  Bassity  gave  himself  utterly  into  the  purple 
phantasm's  arms.  One  who  has  degraded  all  the  natural  in- 
stincts into  servants  of  his  will  must  need  something  evil  to 
rouse  him;  and  it  was  the  thought  that  the  girl  hated  him 
because  of  the  quarrel  with  her  lover,  yet  must  conceal  this 
and  do  his  will,  that  thrilled  him  into  a  savage  ecstasy;  and 
he  seized  her  roughly,  hurting  her  arms  with  his  clutch,  shout- 
ing at  her  ugly  English  words,  commanding  her  in  bad  French 
to  say  she  loved  him  better  than  the  poet,  that  she  hated  the 
poet,  that  she  would  do  anything  her  conqueror  asked;  and, 
when  she  had  obeyed,  he  laughed  brutally  and  shouted  in  a 
harsh,  cruel  voice,  pinching  her  bare  arms  until  she  cried  out 
in  pain  and  the  driver  craned  his  neck  to  look  in. 

He  deposited  them  in  a  street  that  coiled  up  like  a  great 
snake  at  the  foot  of  a  great  church :  a  narrow  street  of  many 
windings,  shuttered  shop  fronts,  the  entrances  of  arched 
courts  here  and  there:  a  dark,  depressing,  dank  and  dirty 
street;  but  Bassity  was  too  full  of  his  evil  vision  to  heed. 
He  followed  her  into  one  of  the  arched  entrances,  into  dark- 
ness. .  .  .  The  blow  that  blotted  out  his  senses  came  upon 
him  while  he  was  chuckling  over  a  new  and  uglier  fancy — a 
picture  never  to  be  painted. 

"Sacred  mother  of  a  blue  camel!"  said  the  poet  excitedly, 
as,  after  transferring  the  banknotes  and  gold  to  his  pockets, 
the  patch  of  shaded  light  from  his  pocket  torch  revealed  the 


250  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

contents  of  the  chamois  bag  about  Bassity's  neck — pure  white 
rays,  deep  blue  and  ruby  red.  .  .  . 

"All  single  stones,  absolutely  not  to  be  traced,"  gasped  the 
cabman;  while  the  dancer  shrilled  her  shock. 

The  poet  buffeted  her  head  against  the  wall  of  the  arch- 
way, calmly,  as  one  who  does  his  duty.  Understanding  her 
fault,  she  wiped  away  the  blood  from  her  mouth,  unprotest- 
ing.  The  light  disappeared  while  poet  and  cabman  cogitated. 
In  the  darkness,  one  could  hear  the  girl  shiver  as  though  she 
read  their  sinister  thoughts. 

"But  this  is  different,  quite,"  said  the  poet  finally.  "To 
regain  such  jewels,  he  will  go  to  his  consulate,  even  to  his 
ambassador — " 

"We  should  have  left  him  to  revive,"  urged  the  cabman 
defensively;  "as  to  the  money,  he  could  prove  nothing.  He 
had  too  much  wine;  who  knows  what  he  spent?  And  he 
slipped  down  in  his  drunkenness  and  she  left  him.  The  scandal 
would  cost  him  more  than  he  has  lost.  But  not  more  than  these 
jewels.  .  .  .  Therefore  .  .  ." 

"Don't  .  .  .  don't,"  begged  the  girl.    "Don't  Raoul,  don't." 

"And  I  will  be  locked  up  because  I'm  your  friend,  heinf" 
snarled  the  poet.  "Then  when  they  are  returned  it  is  New 
Caledonia.  And  not  returned,  it  is  to  drag  away  months, 
maybe  a  year,  in  the  Force  or  the  Madeleine.  No !" 

"Oh,  don't  Raoul!"  sobbed  the  girl.  He  swung  at  her 
blindly  this  time,  driving  her  down  to  her  knees.  "A  franc 
— a  sou,"  he  demanded,  harshly,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  the 
other  man,  who  felt  for  him  in  the  darkness,  complying. 
"Choose,"  said  the  poet.  The  cabman  called  his  choice,  thickly, 
and  the  light  flashed  on  the  poet's  palm,  showing  a  copper 
piece,  lying  face  upward.  "Your  luck,"  snarled  the  poet ;  and 
the  light  winked  again  and  showed  that  he  was  kneeling  near 
Bassity's  upturned  face,  on  which  a  blue  lump  was  thrusting 
itself  outward,  tightening  the  skin  of  the  forehead.  .  .  . 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         251 

"Oh,  don't,  don't,  Raoul!"  sobbed  the  kneeling,  crouching, 
girl.  But  the  poet's  right  hand  was  busy  with  the  pocket 
torch,  and  the  other  held  that  with  which  he  did  not  care  to 
discipline  her — not  then.  As  it  shot  downward,  the  light  went 
out  again. 

A  little  later,  a  huge,  shapeless  mass  moved  through  the 
dark  of  the  Bois :  two  men  carrying  from  a  cab  another  whose 
knees  dragged  the  ground  and  who  was  flung  into  a  thicket 
to  lie  face  downward.  But  he  could  not  cry  out  to  God,  nor 
to  any  other  thing. 

Now  if  human  beings  were  only  bees   .   .   . 


III.  CADGE  DIRKSMELTER,  DRAMATIC  CRITIC 

F  j  jO  the  exceptional  man  there  is  no  more  mystery  about 
I         women  than  about  cabbages.     By  this   (lest  we  be 

**-  triumphantly  refuted)  is  not  meant  the  merely  suc- 
cessful specialist  in  money-making,  science,  statistics,  or  any- 
thing else  that  has  swallowed  up  all  the  other  brain  cells — 
for  Dirksmelter  was  that;  but  he  whose  business  and  pleasure 
it  is  to  read  in  the  Book  of  Life.  To  such,  in  return  for 
perfect  understanding,  women  give  willingly  all  they  have. 

It  is  not  these,  who  have  been  treated  well  by  women,  but 
the  average  man,  plain  of  face  and  mind — who  is  responsible 
for  the  romantic  nonsense  about  her.  Mystery — because  she 
must  always  conceal  from  him  the  truth,  lest  he  weep  for  his 
shattered  ideals  and  depart.  Modesty — because  he  likes  to 
believe  his  ideal  has  a  thousand  times  more  than  himself. 
Higher  morality — because  she  has  no  use  for  him  except  as 
a  provider,  hence  no  passion.  The  average  man  is  deprived, 
by  sheer  respectability,  of  ever  knowing  what  woman's  love 
means;  therefore  he  talks  most  about  it  and  invents  high- 
sounding  names  for  his  shell  to  explain  the  utter  worthlessness 
of  kernels. 

But  the  worst  are  they  who  write  about  it,  and  worst  of  the 
worst  was  Cadge  Dirksmelter,  now  and  for  some  years  past 
"dramatic  critic"  of  the  New  York  "Argus." 


IF  there  is  one  thing  more  than  another  that  makes  wise 
men  laugh,  it  is  those  highly  moral  and  instructive  articles 

252 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         253 

signed  with  the  names  of  well-known  actresses.  Miss  So-and- 
So,  who  claims  girls  can  go  straight  on  seven  dollars  a  week 
because  she  has  done  so — the  same  Miss  So-and-So,  whose 
advance  agent  has  instructed  half  the  country's  hotel  clerks 
to  arrange  adjoining  rooms  for  her  and  her  leading  man. 
Miss  Never-Mind-Who,  who,  discussing  early  chorus  days, 
claims  mamma  always  chaperoned  her — "of  course":  Miss 
Never-Mind-Who,  who  in  those  days  had  a  dim  belief  "chap- 
eron" was  female  for  "chauffeur."  Miss  Who-Do-You- 
Think,  who  has  disguised  herself,  and,  detective-guarded,  de- 
scended the  underworld-ward  "local  color"  gathering  for  new 
parts:  although  such  scenes  were  quite  familiar  to  her  when 
she  was  an  obscure  actress.  An  so  forth  and  so  on  until  an 
entire  Broadway  mythology  is  slowly  created. 

The  other  day,  a  cigar-chewing  press  representative  sank 
back  in  his  chair,  closed  his  eyes  and  conjured  out  of  smoke 
wreaths  the  methods  by  which  the  name  of  that  most  recent 
of  stars,  Miss  Beth  Bohun,  had  attained  electric  lights — 
spending,  for  instance,  many  years  in  cloistral  study  of  stage 
classics:  learning  French  for  undeleted  Moliere,  German  to 
be  free  of  unhallowed  translations  of  Schiller,  Goethe  and 
Lessing:  Spanish  for  unexpurgated  Echegeray.  Had  he 
known  of  a  Chinese  Shakespeare,  no  doubt  she  would  have 
been  proficient  in  Celestial  sing-song.  Then  into  stock  for 
five  years,  refusing  numerous  Broadway  offers  solely  to  play 
the  great  Shakespearean  and  other  classical  roles.  Then  .  .  . 

But  what  does  all  this  profit  us  when  we  know  the  true 
story  ? 

Really  her  career  began  (although  she  had  never  heard  of 
him  at  the  time)  with  the  publication  of  Dirksmelter's  plays; 
but  for  which  he  would  have  continued  a  police  reporter  to 
his  death ;  unless,  at  Oslerian  incapacity,  discharged  and  given, 
in  pity,  a  position  as  night  watchman  or  stage  doorkeeper. 
This  same  fate,  also,  had  his  managing  editor  read  the  plays 


254  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

— very  bad  plays  published  at  his  own  expense — or  rather  at 
the  expense  of  his  wife;  who,  for  more  than  a  year,  had 
inked  the  holes  in  her  shoes,  and  turned  up  the  collar  of  her 
light  jacket  when  in  winter  time  she  sallied  forth,  basket  on 
arm,  bargaining  with  butchers  for  odds  and  ends  of  meat  and 
second-best  vegetables.  Who,  also,  revived  acquaintance  with 
her  former  occupation  of  "vest  finishing,"  to  bring  their  pub- 
lication nearer.  But  she  did  none  of  these  things  for  wifely 
love;  but  through  a  laughable  ignorance  of  the  theatrical  and 
publishing  business;  accepting  his  own  belief  that  the  issu- 
ance of  these  plays  in  book  form  would  speedily  put  him  in 
a  class  with  one  popular  dramatist  who  had  received  a  quarter- 
million  in  royalties  from  a  single  piece  and  another  who  had 
bought  an  English  castle  from  the  proceeds  of  a  dramatized 
novel.  "Once  I  manage  to  get  them  read  .  .  ."  he  often  hinted 
darkly.  One  inferred  that  then  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
immediate  production  and  immense  success. 

Mr.  Dirksmelter  belonged  to  that  unfortunate  class  that, 
having  ambition  without  ability,  and  being  devoid  of  intro- 
spection, a  sense  of  values  or  a  knowledge  of  standards, 
imagines  the  world  in  league  against  them.  His  short  stories 
had  been  refused  by  every  magazine,  known  or  unknown, 
most  of  them  even  by  the  editor  of  his  own  Sunday  Supple- 
ment. His  plays  had  been  entered  in  every  possible  contest 
wherever  English  was  spoken,  and  had  reposed  in  the  offices 
of  every  known  manager,  of  almost  every  publisher;  until,  a 
year  before,  they  had  encountered  the  Badgerton-Beale  Com- 
pany, whose  business  was  not  to  sell  books  to  the  public  but 
to  their  own  authors.  To  Dirksmelter  these  gentlemen  made 
a  "sporting  proposition."  They  "had  faith  in  his  plays"  .  .  . 
They  would  publish  and  push  them  until  the  literary  and 
theatrical  worlds  were  aware  of  the  genius  they  had  been 
neglecting.  But  they  would  not  take  the  customary  base  ad- 
vantage of  an  unknown  genius's  usual  ignorance  of  business 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        255 

to  mulct  him  of  the  astounding  profits  that  should  ensue — let 
other  unprincipled  (and  better  known)  publishers  do  that! 
These  had  the  interest  of  unknown  genius  at  heart:  their 
life  work  was  to  see  unknown  genius  got  what  it  deserved! — 
therefore,  would  be  its  partners  in  publishing  its  work,  of  the 
cost  of  which  (five  hundred  dollars)  they  would  furnish  half, 
plus  heavy  expenses  of  advertising  .  .  . 

Their  actual  method  was,  of  course,  to  print  a  few  hundred 
galley  proofs,  cut  them  into  I2mo  length  and  bind  them 
along  with  cheap  pirate  reprints;  pocketing  more  than  one- 
third  of  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  Dirksmelter  furnished, 
after  a  year  and  a  half  of  savage  saving.  To  which  was  soon 
added  an  extra  fifty  from  author's  purchases — of  many  vol- 
umes in  addition  to  that  half  a  dozen  furnished  "free."  So 
copies  of  the  great  work  came  into  the  possession  of  all 
prominent  managers;  and  Dirksmelter,  relaxing  with  happy 
sighs,  awaited  a  deluge  of  fame  and  fortune. 

Fortunately  he  also  bethought  himself  to  present  one,  in 
person,  to  his  managing  editor ;  that  this  idiotic  autocrat  might 
observe  what  manner  of  genius  was  wasting  itself  upon  police 
reporting.  And  thus  came  his  reward;  for  the  few  literary 
critics  to  whom  the  publishers  sent  the  book,  familiar  with 
the  shady  methods  of  its  publication,  refused  to  recognize  it 
save  in  a  chronicle  of  "Books  Received,"  and  managers' 
readers,  remembering  the  plays  from  manuscript,  tossed  the 
volume  aside  angrily.  But  when  the  managing  editor  turned 
its  pages  idly  it  was  without  knowledge  of  publishers  or  plays, 
only  with  the  remembrance  of  a  dramatic  reviewer's  post  to 
fill,  the  current  incumbent  having  resigned  to  alliterate  in  the 
interests  of  a  "big  show."  So  the  city  editor  was  sent  for. 

"How's  this  man  Dirksmelter?"  he  was  asked.  Having 
replied  non-enthusiastically,  he  was  tossed  the  volume  of 
plays,  his  superior  adding:  "You  know  what  the  Big  Fellow 
always  used  to  say:  'No  good  for  anything  else?  Make  him 


256  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

dramatic  editor!'  .  .  .  Read  the  book?  .  .  .  Neither  did  I. 
But  all  the  highbrows  publish  their  plays  nowadays ;  and  the 
magazines  are  going  in  for  highbrow  criticism.  Maybe,  for 
a  change  that  might  be  better  than  the  funny-dog  stuff  Kauff- 
man  did — hey?" 

"I'd  be  just  as  glad  to  have  a  different  district  man,"  re- 
turned the  city  editor,  a  specialist  in  first  principles.  "Lots 
of  times  we'd  'a'  been  beat  in  his  without  the  'flimsies.'  .  .  . 
And,  far  as  dramatic  criticism  goes,  don't  seem  to  make  much 
difference  who  writes  'em — nobody  reads  'em  'cept  theatrical 
people,  that  is,  and  would-be's.  Public  goes  to  see  the  show 
that  advertises  most.  .  .  .  And — anyhow — you  couldn't  get  a 
good  reporter  to  take  the  job.  Septimus  Drake's  criticisms 
're  syndicated,  and  he  only  gets  seventy-five;  and  the  best 
known  in  the  States — while  any  good  reporter  makes  a  hun- 
dred any  good  week.  But  Dirksmelter  never  got  over  his 
thirty-five  guarantee  'cept  when  some  cyclone  broke;  so  I 
s'pose  he'll  be  glad  enough  to  take  your  forty  regular." 


II 

So  Dirksmelter  was  apprised  of  his  appointment  and  had 
hard  work  to  keep  from  turning  somersaults.  Had  the  wages 
been  less,  he  would  have  accepted  and  put  his  family  on  short 
rations.  A  chance  to  show  up  these  ignorant  managers!  .  .  . 
to  make  them  pay  for  their  slighting  of  his  work ! !  Actors, 
too,  star  actors  who  had  returned  his  scripts ! ! !  Playwrights 
who  had  written  him  discouraging  letters ! ! ! !  He  went  to  his 
first  opening  night  as  a  Corsican  to  his  first  vendetta.  The 
next  morning,  the  world  would  know  what  sort  of  a  fellow 
was  he  whose  light  they  had  been  smothering.  .  .  .  But  it 
did  not  prove  the  triumph  he  had  expected.  He  was  ashamed 
to  be  seated  so  far  down  front,  he  in  his  shabby,  dusty  clothes, 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         257 

surrounded  by  men  and  women  in  evening  dress— even  his 
fellow  "critics,"  whom  he  recognized  from  their  published 
photographs,  were  so  attired — and  the  play  was  one  by  a 
leading  British  dramatist  of  the  new  school,  whose  life  had 
been  one  long  fight  against  the  very  dramatic  conventions  that 
Dirksmelter  had  come  to  deride;  although  he  did  not  know 
precisely  what  they  were. 

So  he  was  sadly  ill  at  ease  until  his  attention  was  at- 
tracted to  the  majority  of  the  "critics"  stalking  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  third  act;  and  then  he  saw  his  chance.  He 
would  begin  his  private  war  with  those  same  critics:  would 
begin  his  maiden  notice  with  the  unfairness  of  reviews  based 
on  the  lesser  nine-tenths  of  the  play;  and  upon  this  excellent 
point  he  would  harp  in  future,  convincing  the  stray  reader 
it  was  his  duty  to  read  the  one  who  was  not  like  other  critics. 

At  the  same  battered  desk  that  had  served  him  as  a  re- 
porter, he  wrote,  with  all  the  glow  of  one  who  feels  he  is 
attracting  attention  to  himself,  and  purely  by  accident,  the 
only  sane  "criticism"  accorded  the  new  production ;  for,  having 
begun  with  his  tirade  against  his  dull  brothers,  and  while 
sitting  palm  in  hand  thinking  of  equally  unpleasant  things  to 
say  about  dull  theatrical  managers,  he  was  attracted  by  some 
information  yielded  by  the  program  at  which  he  had  been 
steadily  staring.  It  bore  the  name  not  of  a  well-known  pro- 
ducer but  of  one  of  many  of  the  new  societies  for  stage 
uplift.  Another  idea  seized  him.  It  was  the  custom  of  the 
critics  of  the  Manhattan  dailies  to  deride  drama  societies,  to 
call  their  productions  "not  plays,  mere  conversations."  With 
regard  to  the  present  play  he  had  meant  to  do  the  same:  the 
British  insurgent  had  discarded  all  the  time-worn  devices 
Dirksmelter  had  been  taught  to  recognize  as  drama.  But  the 
name  of  the  Uplift  League  changed  that.  It  was  against  the 
managers,  too.  He  would  use  it  as  a  bludgeon  with  which 
to  swing  on  managerial  conks,  yet  hide  his  personal  malice 


258  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

under  the  guise  of  drama-developing.  But,  having  no  exact 
idea  of  what  the  play  meant,  he  ascended  some  dark  and 
dirty  steps  and  dived  into  filedom,  discovering  the  insurgent's 
aims  and  ambitions,  reasons  (apart  from  purely  commercial 
ones)  for  writing  plays  and  many  reviews  of  this  one  from 
the  more  enlightened  London  prints.  Of  all  this  he  wrote  a 
careful  paraphrase  intended  to  prove  that  he  was  quite  as 
enlightened  as  the  insurgent  himself:  a  brother-in-arms ;  hint- 
ing broadly  that  he,  alone  of  all  New  York  reviewers,  was 
capable  of  appreciating  such  greatness  .  .  . 

Now  it  has  been  often  proved  that  entire  ignorance  is 
better  than  a  little  knowledge.  Out  of  Monte  Carlo  come 
frequent  tales  of  the  greenhorn  gambler  who  by  taking  foolish 
risks  closes  a  table  for  the  day.  Out  of  Indiana  come  country 
schoolmasters  with  best-selling  romances  worse  written,  more 
ridiculously  conceived  than  the  worst  hack  writer  would  dare. 
Out  of  the  Bowery  come  songs  that  sweep  the  country,  con- 
taining near-rhymes  that  offend  even  the  unrhythmical  ears 
of  Tin  Pan  Alley  jongleurs.  .  .  .  And  the  discoverer  of 
America  was  seeking  Cathay! 

So  in  his  ignorance  Dirksmelter  dared  to  do  an  unpro- 
fessional thing:  dared  risk  the  ridicule  of  a  united  brother- 
hood. For  his  complete  ignorance  of  the  play's  purpose 
might  have  been  revealed  in  any  line  of  his  paraphrase  and 
would  have  left  him  at  the  mercy  of  the  many  he  had  ex- 
coriated :  who  would,  vengef ully,  have  made  him  so  ridiculous 
that  his  resignation  would  have  been  requested.  But  Luck 
had  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  guided  his  pencil;  and, 
within  the  next  few  days,  he  had  won  notoriety  that,  in  his 
greediest  dreams,  he  had  not  the  imagination  to  conceive; 
his  only  rivals  in  a  sea  of  advertising  the  queens  of  vaudeville 
and  the  fairies  of  soap.  Small  was  the  fame  of  best-selling 
novelists  and  popular  playwrights  beside  that  which  looked  up 
at  him  from  every  third  ashcan  and  every  sixth  billboard.  His 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        259 

name  thereon  was  in  larger  letters  than  the  plays,  while  those 
of  the  author's  were  no  larger  than  the  least  of  his  lightest 
words.  The  fact  that  Cadge  Dirksmelter  (N.  Y.  Argus)  had 
approved  of  the  Insurgent,  and  of  the  Uplift  League,  seemed 
to  be  of  more  importance  for  the  public  to  know  than  the 
fact  that  women  should  wear  only  certain  corsets  or  that 
men  should  drink  only  certain  ryes. 

"You  see,"  he  pointed  out  to  his  wife,  when  she  had 
urged  some  ridiculous  reason  for  replenishing  her  ancient 
wardrobe.  He  had  taken  her  for  a  walk — after  dark,  of 
course,  so  that  the  well-known  critic  might  not  be  observed 
openly  to  associate  with  so  shabby  a  female — and  was  discover- 
ing his  name  in  the  most  remote  and  inaccessible  places,  often 
in  letters  a  foot  high.  "Suppose  you  were  a  stranger  to  me," 
he  went  on,  "and  you  saw  all  that  advertising  and  then  saw 
such  a  well-known  man  in  old  wornout  clothes  when  everybody 
else  had  on  dress  suits — dress  suits,"  he  added,  proudly  and 
with  the  air  of  possession;  for  did  there  not  repose  at  home 
such  a  suit?  Later,  attired  in  it,  with  trousers  and  coat 
lapels  in  knifelike  creases,  a  ready-made  bowtie  fastened  with 
elastic  around  a  choker  collar,  and  a  square-cut  white  waist- 
coat that  looked  like  a  stage  parlor  maid's  apron;  yes,  even 
with  black  bone  buttons  for  studs,  his  egotism  failed  to  appre- 
ciate any  marked  difference  between  what  looked  back  from 
the  mirror  and  what  the  artist  for  the  ready-made  clothes 
company  had  drawn,  with  a  young  Apollo  in  one  of  a  Fifth 
Avenue  tailor's  masterpieces  for  model. 

And  yet,  far  from  being  satisfied,  that  exasperating  woman 
of  his  had  again  whined.  It  was  a  whine  she  was  to  repeat 
for  many  months  to  come;  especially  when  she  came  to 
imagine  that,  if  new  apparel  was  also  hers,  she  might  occupy 
that  other  orchestra  chair  beside  her  husband — for  all  re- 
viewers receive  a  pair  of  seats — that,  nightly,  was  unoccupied. 
But  she  never  did;  which  was  unlucky  for  Dirksmelter  in 


260  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

two  ways,  for  it  not  only  gave  the  manager  of  the  Hyperian 
Theater  an  excuse  to  seat  Bessie  Boone  alongside  the  "critic" 
one  night,  but  also  gave  Bessie  her  excuse  to  be  merciless 
later  on,  when  she  heard  of  this  monumental  selfishness. 


Ill 

BUT  we  must  be  content  with  the  ill-luck  of  the  moment. 
Dirksmelter  did  not  recognize  it  for  what  it  was;  seeing  only 
the  pretty  girl  for  whom  the  theater  manager,  leaning  over 
his  chair,  besought  his  gentle  mercies:  "the  house  sold  out 
...  an  old  friend." 

Dirksmelter  thought  her  a  divine  innocent,  as  she  sat 
beside  him  prattling  artlessly  of  the  play  and  its  people,  some 
acquaintances.  Yes,  she  was  on  the  stage;  although  it  was 
no  place  for  a  girl  without  influence;  and  so  she  was  playing 
a  "bit"  in  a  piece  soon  to  open;  she,  of  many  ingenue  leads, 
and  most  difficult  juvenile  character  work  in  stock  and  in 
"number  threes";  but,  "just  as  he  said  in  his  charming  criti- 
cisms :  'money,  not  art,  counted  nowadays.' " 

She  smiled  up  at  him  with  childish  wistfulness.  Would 
she  have  supper  with  him?  She  was  not  quite  sure  it  was 
quite  the  nice  thing ;  people  talked  so,  and  it  was  hard  enough 
for  a  girl  to  keep  her  reputation  in  this  profession,  even  when 
she  never  did  anything;  he  understood,  didn't  he?  But  to 
prove  she  appreciated  the  honor,  wouldn't  he  have  tea  at  her 
little  place  to-morrow?  If  he  would,  she  would  sing  aloud 
for  joy.  She  had  read  everything  he  had  ever  written  and 
she  thought  he  was  too  wonderful  for  words ! !  Yes — really ! 
He  mustn't  be  so  modest.  .  .  .  With  the  consequence  that 
Mr.  Dirksmelter  formed  no  very  clear  idea  of  what  the 
evening's  performance  was  about.  But  he  would  have  formed 
the  wrong  one  anyhow,  so  no  harm  was  done. 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         261 

Lest  her  gross  machine-made  flattery  be  deemed  too  "raw," 
it  must  be  remembered  he  had  been  a  critic  nearly  a  season 
now;  hence  a  conspiracy  was  afoot  to  convince  him  he  was 
quite  the  most  important  person  in  the  city.  He  had  been 
the  honored  guest  of  international  "stars."  Famous  actresses 
sent  him  monogramed  Christmas  presents.  Manager^ 
seemed  to  defer  to  his  judgments  in  casting  plays.  Long 
since,  he  had  ceased  paying  for  his  own  suppers  after  the 
show — some  actor,  playwright  or  manager  was  willing,  even 
anxious,  to  be  bored  for  several  hours  in  addition  to  paying 
the  bills.  Moreover,  he  had  been  introduced  to  subtler  sys- 
tems of  flattery:  had  been  invited  by  two  managers  to  read 
those  unsolicited  plays  which  pour  in  from  all  corners  of  the 
globe ;  and  in  which  no  manager  has  ever  been  known  to  find 
a  paying  production,  the  real  plays  coming  from  agents,  or 
along  with  letters  of  introduction.  Formerly  legitimate 
salaries  had  been  paid  to  expert  play-readers;  but  now  the 
managers  made  sure  of  reaping  at  least  some  profit  from 
such  salaries;  finding  them  an  excellent  bait  for  poorly  paid 
critics.  The  fish  once  hooked,  it  was  a  certainty  he  would 
rise  to  his  new  income  and  then  fear  to  lose  it  by  angering 
with  ill-advised  rebukes  the  holder  of  line  and  hook. 

Dirksmelter  had  accepted  one  such  job  and  was  considering 
another;  while  a  third  manager  had  given  him  a  contract  to 
novelize  all  successful  plays  produced  by  his  firm;  for  which 
he  would  receive  on  each  a  substantial  advance  and  one-half 
the  royalties.  So  that,  with  flattery  in  such  substantial  forms, 
it  was  not  strange  he  took  as  his  right  and  heritage  the  eager 
admiration  of  one  young  girl. 

"I  have  seats  just  like  this  for  every  opening  night,"  he 
told  her,  when  she  expressed  her  gratitude  at  being  able  to 
see  the  show  "so  far  down  front" — we  professionals,  you 
know,  always  get  the  back  rows" — "and,"  he  added  porten- 
tously, "I  never  have  occupied  but  one.  I'm  famous  for  it. 


262  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

But  then  I  never  met  anybody  I  wanted  to  take  before.  If 
you'd  like  to  go  with  me,  hereafter,  until  you  open  .  .  ." 

As  she  said  (to  Norman  MacKinder,  her  companion  of 
recent  stock  days,  seated  on  her  trunk  in  one  of  those  small 
hotels  in  the  forties),  really  he  was  the  most  ridiculous  jay 
to  be  seen  outside  the  tank  towns,  and  how  he  had  got  to 
be  critic  she  couldn't  for  the  life  of  her  imagine.  Whereat 
Norman  had  returned  fiercely  that  she  was  never  to  mind 
what  sort  of  a  jay  he  was;  it  was  their  first  chance  in  five 
years  to  amount  to  anything  along  the  Big  Lane,  and  if  she 
couldn't  manage  Dirksmelter  so  they  did,  he,  Norman,  would 
know  the  reason  why. 

"But,  Norman,"  she  protested,  making  a  little  mouth  of 
disgust.  Privately,  she  had  decided  to  do  just  that;  but  she 
wanted  it  to  seem  that  she  was  being  forced  into  it  against 
her  own  delicate  refinement  of  nature.  But  Norman  only 
growled.  He  was  quite  well  aware  of  this. 

"If  you  could  only  see  him!"  she  went  on.  "He's  got 
a  funny  face  like  a  corkscrew,  and  little  piggy  eyes,  and  he 
wears  a  funny  little  pinched-in  hat,  and  a  gray  tie  with  his 
dinner  coat.  And  he's  tall  and  skinny,  and  has  a  funny  nose 
and  those  funny  eyeglasses  that  droop  down  and  look  like 
they're  going  to  slide  off — like  those  cartoons  of  the  'Common 
People' — you  know.  And  you  ought  to  have  heard  him  to- 
night criticising  the  play  about  being  true  to  life;  saying 
society  people  didn't  act  that  way.  I  was  nea/ly  sick  from 
not  laughing.  Him  criticising  what  was  society!  It  was 
awful." 

"Yes,  but  it's  more  awful  playing  one-night  stands,  sleep- 
ing in  your  clothes  in  day  coaches  or  sitting  up  half  the 
night  waiting  for  the  four-hours-late  local  to  take  you  to 
the  next  water  tank,"  growled  Norman,  one  of  the  idols  of 
those  same  "tanks" ;  long  and  lean  of  figure  and  with  a  hand- 
some, dissipated  face.  "Or  playing  two-a-day  stock,  rehearsing , 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         263 

for  next  week  all  morning  and  studying  your  part  all  night — 
I'd  sooner  be  dead  than  go  back  to  it.  And  what  chance  has 
a  couple  like  us  on  Broadway  without  some  pull?  'Tisn't  as 
if  we  were  wonders  at  anything — there's  thousands  as  good- 
looking  and  can  act  as  well.  Don't  kid  yourself  you're  any 
Cleopatra  for  looks;  and  if  you  frame  up  better  than  the 
average  of  these  dolls,  it's  only  because  I  made  you  can  those 
chippy  styles  you  used  to  wear.  .  .  .  But  it  seems  you've 
made  a  hit  with  this  gink,  and  though  he's  a  natural  born 
idiot  and  as  ugly  as  Billiken,  you  just  kid  him  along  until 
he  lands  you  something  worth  while.  .  .  .  And  quit  that  pre- 
tending you  hate  to  do  it,  too.  It's  just  natural  born  in  you 
women  to  love  admiration,  even  if  it's  only  from  the  bootblack 
on  the  corner.  And,  as  for  leading  a  man  on  and  laughing  at 
him  up  your  sleeve,  you  like  it  better  than  eating — and  the  only 
dames  that  don't  do  it  are  those  that're  too  ugly  to  get  anybody 
to  lead  on ;  and  so  they  pretend  they're  too  good  for  it — " 

"Oh,  Norman,  how  can  you  have  such  a  low  opinion  of 
me?"  she  asked,  shedding  tears.  "It's  those  other  low  women 
you've  had  who've  given  you  such  ideas.  I'm  not  like  them, 
I  want  you  to  know."  She  advanced  on  him  with  open  arms, 
but  he  repulsed  her. 

"That's  what  every  woman  kids  herself  into  thinking  about 
herself  and  about  the  last  woman,"  he  returned  imperturbably. 
"The  only  man  who  gets  you  right  is  the  one  who  knows  all 
that  stuff's  the  bunk.  The  Chinese  and  the  Turks  have  got  the 
right  idea  about  you — you  haven't  any  souls.  Nor  any  ideas, 
either,  except  what  we  put  into  your  heads.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  me  teaching  you  how  tor  dress  and  act,  you'd  'a'  been 
playing  the  tanks  and  flirting  with  grangers  till  you  got  into 
the  Actor's  Home.  So  you  do  just  what  I  tell  you — under- 
stand?" 

"Oh,  Norman!"  she  said,  tearfully,  but  in  accents  of  ad- 
miration. He  permitted  her  caress.  "Now,"  he  said,  "I'll  tell 


264  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

you  how  to  manage  this  critic  guy  so  we'll  both  be  wearing 
diamonds." 

IV 

HAD  Nature  given  Mr.  Dirksmelter  even  an  elemental  sense 
of  humor,  one  glance  at  his  shaving-glass  would  have  convinced 
him  no  woman  with  any  choice  would  have  chosen  him.  But, 
had  he  been  given  a  sense  of  humor,  his  face  would  have 
been  a  different  face.  He  imagined,  of  course,  that  his  wife 
worshiped  him  as  a  god,  but  he  did  not  know  how  compara- 
tively easy  is  housework  compared  to  sewing  on  vests  for 
ten  hours  daily.  He  imagined,  also,  from  their  flattering  at- 
tentions, that  several  well-known  actresses  concealed  an  ardent 
regard  for  him;  whereas  they  merely  wanted  what  well- 
known  actresses  generally  want  from  critics,  and  took  good 
care  never  to  receive  him  alone.  And,  as  he  was  under  the 
delusion  that  the  play-reading  and  novelization  jobs  had  been 
given  him  solely  because  of  his  transcendent  ability,  deeming! 
himself  a  superior  person  to  whom  the  entire  theatrical  world 
looked  to  be  cleansed  of  its  sins,  it  was  without  much  difficulty 
that  Bessie  Boone  convinced  him  that  she  was  quite  mad 
about  him — but  his  wife  stood  in  the  way.  If  only  he  were 
not  married  .  .  . 

His  knowledge  of  women  was  of  the  primitive  sort  most 
men  possess.  There  were  good  women  and  bad  women.  Man 
was  the  natural  enemy  of  good  women,  pursuing,  luring, 
tempting  them;  and  was  quite  unworthy  of  a  good  woman's 
love.  Only  the  love  for  one,  unallied  with  thought  of  sex, 
could  make  him  worthy  to  "touch  the  hem  of  her  garment" — 
any  hem.  A  good  woman  might  love  a  man  desperately, 
might  be  willing  to  die  for  him;  but  would  never  pander  to 
a  man's  low  passions — if  he  were  low  enough  to  wish  her  to; 
which  "any  decent  man"  was  not.  Every  time  a  good  woman 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         265 

loved  a  married  man,  there  was  material  for  a  "big  throbbing 
play  of  genuine  heart  interest,"  in  Act  III  of  which  man,  the 
immoral,  weakened  under  the  stress  of  passion,  was  brought 
to  a  realization  of  his  shameful  insults  by  her  calm,  lofty 
nobility  of  character;  expiating  his  crime  in  some  gallant 
entr'acte  off-stage  deed,  so  that  Act  IV  could  show  her  bury- 
ing her  beauty  in  a  nunnery — or,  else,  she  died  (on  stage), 
and  he  swore  to  prove  his  love  by  devoting  his  great  talents 
to  some  noble  work.  .  .  . 

Whenever  Dirksmelter  saw  such  a  play  he  waxed  fervent 
in  his  praise  of  its  "masterly  grip  of  human  cross-purposes," 
"its  relentless  delineation  of  the  conflict  between  the  flesh  and 
the  spirit  .  .  ." 

Consequently,  Bessie  Boone  had  little  trouble  in  convincing 
him  that  any  attempts  at  kisses  or  caresses  were  insults.  All 
of  which  had  been  accurately  foretold  by  Norman  MacKinder, 
after  having  arranged  to  meet  Bessie  on  Broadway  "by  the 
merest  chance"  and  to  talk  to  Dirksmelter  for  half  an  hour, 
alone,  over  several  tongue-loosening  glasses  of  whiskey. 

But  what  he  had  not  foretold  was  that  Dirksmelter  would 
carry  the  joke  so  far  as  to  embark  upon  a  carefully  arranged 
off-stage  climax  of  his  own;  telling  his  wife  he  had  never 
really  loved  before,  "had  never  known  the  meaning  of  the 
word" ;  and  that  it  was  "a  greater  sin  to  live  with  a  wife  one 
did  not  love  than  with  a  mistress  one  did";  so,  if  she  really 
loved  him,  she  would  prove  it  by  giving  him  his  liberty;  for 
those  who  really  loved  would  sacrifice  all  to  see  the  loved  one 
happy  .  .  . 

Now  Dirksmelter,  to  his  wife,  represented  all  the  comforts 
of  home,  all  the  restful  security  of  having  shifted  the  problem 
of  food  and  lodging,  permanently,  to  another's  shoulders ;  and, 
as  she  was  now  possessed  of  new  clothes — gifts  of  an  uneasy 
conscience— and  was  planning  ways  and  means  to  get  her 
share  of  all  the  extra  moneys  now  coming  in  from  play- 


266  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

reading  and  novelization,  and  had  picked  out  a  more  expensive 
flat  farther  downtown,  she  burst  into  wild  protestations  of 
love  that  would  never  die.  She  had  given  him  "the  best  years 
of  her  life";  she  was  "the  mother  of  his  children";  she  "called 
heaven  to  witness"  that  she  would  "sooner  die  than  see  him 
in  the  arms  of  another  woman" — that  scheming  woman  who 
only  wanted  his  money  and  his  fame;  whereas  she,  his  wife, 
had  loved  him  when  he  was  poor  and  unknown.  .  .  It  was 
no  psychic  knowledge  of  Miss  Beth  Bohun  (to  be)  that 
prompted  the  accusation:  it  was  what  is  always  said  of  the 
other  woman  under  like  circumstance.  And  Dirksmelter,  hav- 
ing never  looked  on  the  face  of  Truth,  only  on  its  sentimental 
imitation,  saw  no  reason  to  doubt  her  sincerity.  So  it  was 
long  before  he  dared  break  the  silence  by  suggesting  he  meant 
to  do  the  "right  thing." 

At  which  her  heart  leaped.  To  be  free  of  him,  to  be  no 
longer  compelled  to  listen  to  him  read  aloud  passages  from  his 
own  works  and  pretend  to  be  interested,  to  be  free  to  patronize 
moving  pictures,  which  he  despised  and  forbade,  to  read  the 
bonbon-wrappered  fiction  which  she  loved,  but  could  never 
bring  into  the  house,  to  go  about  all  day  in  a  kimono  and 
without  corsets,  and  to  devote  to  her  children  the  time  neces- 
sary to  keeping  the  house  and  his  clothes  in  what  he  called 
order — to  be  free — yet  still  to  have  a  home  and  not  to  earn  it 
as  a  wife  on  salary!  The  vision  was  one  she  had  had  once 
when  he  had  been  taken  down  with  his  annual  bronchitis  and 
the  doctor  had  looked  grave.  At  that  time  she  had  stolen  off 
to  his  desk  in  the  next  room  to  stare  mechanically  at  the 
dancing  figures  on  his  life-insurance  policy.  And  for  three 
or  four  days  the  wild  hope  endured;  while  she  worried  the 
nurse  with  offers  of  useless  assistance,  and  made  him  little 
delicacies  which  she  knew  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  touch — 
favorites  of  hers  that  she  could  afterward  devour  in  secret; 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         267 

earning  the  eulogy  of  the  nurse,  "the  most  devoted  wife  I 
ever  saw:  how  she  loves  you,  Mr.  Dirksmelter !" 

But  whether  she  had  done  these  things  for  fear  her  secret 
might  be  discovered,  or  because  she  wished  to  convince  her- 
self she  harbored  no  such  wicked  thoughts,  who  can  say? 
But  now,  facing  a  realization  of  her  highest  hopes,  the  same 
mixed  motives  resulted  in  a  second  statement  that  she  would 
"sooner  die" — this  time  "rather  than  take  a  penny  of  his 
money."  Did  he  think  the  money  made  any  difference  ?  How 
like  a  man!  How  little  he  understood  a  woman's  love!  She 
wished  he  had  never  had  any  more  than  at  first — then  he 
would  always  have  been  hers.  It  was  the  money  that  had 
parted  them.  She  hated  the  money.  She  would  "work  her 
fingers  to  the  bone"  to  support  "his  children"  (never  by  any 
Chance  hers  also)  but  "accept  his  money?  Never!" 

He  argued,  he  pleaded,  he  implored.  Finally,  when  she 
saw  he  was  too  weak,  too  hoarse,  to  argue,  plead  or  implore 
further,  she  weakened  "for  the  children's  sake";  and,  before 
the  evening  was  over,  it  was  settled  that  he  would  give  her 
half  of  his  earnings  for  the  six  months  she  must  spend  in 
Reno  divorcing  him ;  and  would  draw  up  papers  at  his  lawyer's 
next  day,  agreeing  to  pay  her  something  more  than  a  third 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life  after  the  decree  had  been  granted. 
Also  he  would  take  out  an  extra  insurance  policy,  like  the 
former  in  her  favor. 

The  interview,  punctuated  by  choking  sobs  on  her  part, 
was  terminated  by  a  burst  of  wild  weeping,  during  which  she 
slammed  and  locked  the  bedroom  door;  from  behind  which 
he  could  hear  her  tragic  references  to  her  "poor  abandoned 
babies,"  who  ungratefully  protested  in  sleepy  voices  against 
any  mid-nocturnal  manhandling.  All  during  the  night,  as  he 
lay  on  the  uncomfortable  "library"  davenport,  he  heard  occa- 
sional repetitions  of  these  various  forms  of  hysteria;  and  he 
felt  more  than  ever  like  a  man  in  "a  big  throbbing  play  of 


268  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

genuine  heart  interest";  one  of  those  who  profess  to  wonder, 
hypocritically,  why  so  many  women  love  them  so  deeply; 
privately  quite  sure  there  is  nothing  at  which  to  wonder.  So 
following  their  example,  Cadge  Dirksmelter  cursed  his  fatal 
fascination. 

His  wife's  sobs  that  he  heard  were  real  enough  now — 
quite  as  is  the  custom  of  the  sex,  she  was  sobbing  for  sheer 
joy.  At  last  she  could  have  the  wallpaper  and  the  Brussels 
carpets  she  fancied  and  wear  the  kind  of  clothes  he  said  were 
"not  fit  for  decent  women  to  wear."  Why,  even  as  she  was, 
she  knew  she  had  not  lost  her  fascination — had  she  not  de- 
tected tender  tones  in  the  grocer  clerk's  conversation  over  the 
wire,  and  hadn't  that  book-agent  plainly  shown  his  disap- 
pointment when  he  found  she  was  not  "Miss" — as  he  had 
imagined  from  her  looks  ?  .  .  . 


ON  the  floor  of  Congress,  if  Senator  Smith  will  help  keep 
the  tariff  on  ink- wipers  (which  the  constituents  of  Senator 
Jones  mainly  manufacture),  said  Jones  will  reciprocate  on 
pin-cushions,  the  major  manufacture  of  Smithian  constituency. 
On  the  floor  of  the  Foyer,  Critic  Brown  discovers  that  Critic 
Robinson's  friend  is  an  actress  of  "no  mean  ability,"  so  that 
said  Robinson  may  be  willing  to  render  similar  services  to 
Brownian  friends. 

So  Dirksmelter,  having  long  since  made  peace  with  the 
critical  fraternity,  which  in  the  case  of  a  success  was  willing 
to  understand  that  a  man  must  not  hesitate  to  succeed — Beth 
Bohun  (she  was  now  so  styled  at  MacKinder's  command) 
had  been  discovered  to  the  readers  of  Manhattan  newspapers, 
as — (i) — a  "young  actress  of  rare  charm,  whose  talents  were 
almost  buried  in  the  minor  part  of  The  Milliner'"; — (2) — 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         269 

"one  whom  it  was  my  fortune  first  to  see  last  night,  and  whom 
I  shall  expect  to  see  often  again  in  larger  parts  if  our  obtuse 
managers  show  even  their  usual  glimmering  of  perspicacity"; 
— (3) —  .  .  .  "a  flapper  who  did  not  flap  in  vain  for,  even 
in  her  attempted  obscurity,  her  tiny  chirping  rang  truer  than 
the  cackling  of  the  hens  and  the  crowing  of  the  roosters" — 
to  quote  the  more  prominent  self-advertisers.  All  agreed  that 
here  was  a  pulchritudinous  and  artistic  "find"  and  it  behooved 
managers  to  give  it  speedy  recognition. 

Personally,  F.  Earl  Abrams,  producer  of  the  piece,  had  seen 
nothing  unusual  in  Miss  Bohun ;  nor  did  he,  even  after  reading 
the  reviews — he  was  well  aware  of  the  Dirksmelter  connection 
and  of  consequent  "critical"  procedure.  But,  being  Semitic, 
he  resented  nothing  that  would  injure  business;  only  sought 
to  twist  it  to  serve  his  ends.  Here  was  a  chance  to  get  gratis 
publicity  worth  many  thousands — how  best  advantage  himself 
by  it?  Rejecting  several  obvious  methods,  he  remembered 
he  had  on  his  hands  a  play  by  a  foreign  dramatist,  the  large 
advance  royalties  on  which  would  be  forfeited,  or  another 
huge  advance  paid,  unless  it  was  done  before  a  certain  date. 
He  had  ordered  the  piece  on  the  strength  of  the  author's  cur- 
rent London  success ;  and  on  its  delivery  had  cursed  copiously 
on  finding  it  one  of  those  daring  affairs  that  have  a  single 
chance  of  enormous  success  to  ninety-nine  of  dire  failure.  It 
all  depended  on  how  the  shrieking  climax  of  Act  II  would  be 
received — an  orgy  frankly  Bacchanalian;  and,  though  the 
public  might  be  enthusiastic  if  left  alone,  he  feared  fierce 
denunciatory  critical  comment,  that  might  bring  Police  De- 
partment censors  with  orders  to  close  the  theater  or  excise 
the  objectionable  scene.  And — the  fore  and  aft  portions  of 
the  play  being  but  an  excuse  and  a  reasoa  for  that  scene — 
deletion,  even  revision,  of  it  would  leave  a  sorry  piece  of 
dramaturgy. 

If  only  he  could  start  with  the  right  foot — with  critical 


270  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

approval ;  such  had  been  his  despairing  cry  when  he  first  read 
the  play.  And  now  it  seemed  that  Miss  Beth  Bohun  might 
be  the  treadle  to  set  that  right  foot  automatically  in  motion. 
So,  cautiously,  he  began  investigations;  and  in  the  course  of 
the  next  few  weeks  each  reviewer  was  caught  alone  and  in- 
formed that  Mr.  Earle  Abrams  had  been  profoundly  im- 
pressed by  his  notice  of  "that  wonderful  little  girl,  Miss 
Bohun." 

"You're  sure  the  picker  right  enough,"  Mr.  Abrams  would 
continue  jovially;  "you  for  the  eye  every  time.  You  got  me 
for  my  little  plot,  didn't  you?  I  oughta  known  you'd  make 
her  for  the  genius  she  is  even  in  a  'bit.'  I  only  put  her  in  so 
she'd  have  some  small  change  while  she  was  training  for  the 
biggest  part  the  old  lane  ever  saw.  When  I  got  the  play  last 
year  I  knew  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  a  Broadway  woman 
to  look  the  part — innocence  and  all  that.  But  it  had  to  be 
played,  too.  So  I  started  prowling  the  stock  companies  from 
Maine  to  Augusta,  and  I  was  about  ready  to  chuck  the  piece 
when  I  saw  this  little  girl  in  Gloucester  stock.  I  meant  to 
sneak  in  on  rubber  heels,  though,  and  give  Broadway  the 
shock  of  its  life.  But  you  go  and  get  me  first  crack  outa  the 
box.  Say,  don't  wise  up  anybody  to  what  I've  just  told  you, 
though,  and  we  might  put  it  over  yet.  Promise."  This  tale 
he  told  everyone  but  Dirksmelter — to  whom  he  claimed  he  was 
giving  the  chance  to  the  young  lady  solely  because  he  loved 
Dirksmelter  like  a  brother;  adjuring  him  also  not  to  tell. 

It  was  on  receipt  of  this  information  that  the  great  Act  III 
scene  of  the  throbbing  human-nature  drama  had  been  played ; 
and,  a  week  later,  Mrs.  Dirksmelter  and  abandoned  progeny 
were  off  for  Reno,  and  Dirksmelter  was  with  Bessie  planning 
roseate  futures.  No  longer  would  his  gauzelike  wings  of 
genius  be  tawdried  by  contact  with  a  drab  woman.  He  would 
be  the  husband  of  one  who,  though  a  great  artiste,  still  revered 
him  as  the  master  of  her  fate,  and  was  humbly  subject  to 


v 

MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         271 

the  master's  commands  and  criticisms.  Together  they  would 
inaugurate  a  new  era  in  American  theatricals.  As  for  the 
weekly  drain  of  alimony  that  must  be  paid  for  the  liberty 
necessary  to  inaugurate  this  Golden  Age,  that  would  be  made 
up  a  hundredfold  by  the  great  artiste's  salary,  which,  as  her 
manager,  he  would  handle.  True,  she  was  to  receive  a  very 
small  monetary  consideration  for  playing  the  great  part;  but 
it  was  the  chance  that  counted.  Afterward,  a  hundred  blank 
contracts  would  be  forced  on  her;  and  he  could  resign  his 
position  to  take  his  rightful  place  in  the  world. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  she  declared  to  MacKinder 
that,  future  or  no  future,  she  would  go  mad  if  she  had  to 
stand  this  man  much  longer — so  irritating  the  actor  that  he 
pursued  her  through  her  two  rooms  with  fist  upraised  and 
violent  words  outpouring ;  until,  too  breathless  to  dodge  around 
the  brass  bed  longer,  she  surrendered. 

"You  let  me  hear  any  more  of  that  stuff,"  her  conqueror 
breathed  heavily,  "and  you'll  not  only  see  him,  but  you'll  need 
a  heavy  veil  to  do  it  in,  too.  Quit  now — when  everything's 
framed  right ?  Didn't  Abrams  tell  you  he  was  only  giving  you 
the  job  because  of  the  notices  you'll  get?  D'you  think  he'd 
let  you  have  it  for  a  single  minute  if  he  heard  you'd  split  out 
from  this  mutt?  You  let  me  hear  any  more  of  that  and 
I'll  make  you  think  Simon  Legree  was  a  gentle  philan- 
thropist. .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Norman — how  can  you  be  so  brutal f"  she  whimpered, 
sidling  up  to  him.  "I  hate  you,  you — you  sweetest  thing  in  the 
world,  you !"  But  Norman  only  shook  her  off,  growling.  His 
temper  had  not  improved  in  the  months  he  had  been  idle;  he 
did  not  relish  absence  from  the  public  eye ;  and  their  savings — • 
in  consequence  of  providing  separate  establishments — had  al- 
most vanished.  He,  like  Bessie,  wanted  her  to  be  free  as 
soon  as  possible;  but  not  before  she  was  in  a  position  to 


272  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

demand  of  managers  that  Mr.  Norman  MacKinder  be  given 
leading  parts,  also. 

But  Bessie,  besides  her  distaste  for  Dirksmelter,  had  a  new 
anxiety — the  thought  that  rapidly  slipping  away  were  the 
six  months  when  she  would  have  no  further  excuse  for  re- 
maining other  than  Mrs.  Dirksmelter.  And  the  new  piece 
had  not  gone  into  rehearsal  until  several  months  after  her 
first  New  York  opening.  Only  fools  make  important  produc- 
tions after  autumn  until  the  Christmas  holidays.  They  were 
again  delayed  that  the  leading  man  Abrams  wanted  might 
conclude  his  contract  elsewhere.  Then  rehearsals  dragged 
interminably ;  and,  after  weeks  of  performances  to  provincials, 
who,  without  a  New  York  endorsement,  did  not  know  whether 
to  applaud  or  be  shocked,  and  who,  as  has  grown  to  be  the 
custom,  mostly  decided  to  wait  to  see  it  when  it  had  weathered 
Manhattan's  heavy  seas,  Abrams  swore  he  would  lose  no 
more  money  on  the  piece;  and  closed  the  company  until 
metropolitan  "time"  could  be  secured,  which  gave  them  another 
long  delay  during  which  those  wiseacres  who  go  to  out-of-town 
openings  counseled  changes  as  imperative  if  the  piece  would 
live:  changes  necessitating  a  native  play-carpenter  and  more 
rehearsals. 

Thus  the  six  months  had  spent  themselves  by  the  night  of 
the  final  dress  rehearsal;  and  the  thought  of  Dirksmelter 
with  a  telegram  announcing  his  freedom  caused  Bessie  to 
give  so  abominable  a  performance  that  Abrams's  friends  (not 
in  the  secret)  counseled  him,  in  the  names  of  several  demons 
and  deities,  to  postpone  the  piece  until  a  leading  lady  not 
positively  impossible  should  qualify.  Despite  his  furious  re- 
cital of  this,  the  girl  was  too  worn  with  worry  to  have  done 
better  on  the  following  night,  had  not  Norman  MacKinder 
taken  a  hand,  and,  from  the  early  morn  of  the  dress  rehearsal 
until  the  premiere  on  the  following  night,  spent  the  remainder 
of  their  savings  on  a  hired  motor  car  and  champagne  at  road- 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         273 

side  inns,  with  nicety  of  an  expert,  building  her  up  to  that 
stage  of  intoxication  where  one  does  not  brood,  but  is  not  in- 
capacitated: and  depositing  her  in  this  condition  at  the  stage 
door.  Then  he  hunted  up  Abrams,  and  asked  that  he  forbid 
anyone  to  see  her  until  after  the  performance.  When  that 
time  came,  and  the  girl  had  been  caressed  by  Norman  and 
applauded  for  her  evening's  work,  Dirksmelter,  almost  dis- 
tracted by  her  absence  of  the  day,  was  admitted  and — once 
she  saw  he  did  not  carry  the  dreaded  yellow  slip  that  released 
him  from  matrimony — was  reassured  of  her  love.  At  which 
he  rushed  off  to  his  office  to  write  his  famous  notice — "the  play 
and  actress  of  the  century" :  that  notice  which  was  to  be 
quoted  on  every  hoarding  in  the  city — that  would  look  at  him 
satirically  for  many  months  later  every  time  he  opened  a 
newspaper — that  made  him  the  laughing-stock  of  Broadway. 
For,  after  the  anxious  pair  had  sat  up  until  early  morning 
to  read  the  reviews,  they  had  found  Dirksmelter  no  longer 
necessary:  almost  every  newspaper  proclaimed  that  her  per- 
formance of  Dionysia  made  her  one  of  America's  most  dis- 
tinguished portray ers  of  emotion ;  although  many  found  fault 
with  the  "technique"  of  the  play  by  one  of  the  master  techni- 
cians of  the  playwriting  trade ! !  So  at  last  Norman  had 
allowed  her  to  cast  off  Dirksmelter;  writing  at  his  dictation: 

MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND : 

"This  morning,  amid  all  this  triumph,  I  was  sad.  Here 
I  was  famous,  through  no  merit  of  my  own,  with  prospects 
of  more  money  than  I  can  spend  and  what  all  the  papers  say 
is  a  distinguished  career.  And  there  is  a  poor  little  woman 
out  in  Reno  who  has  none  of  these  things :  one  who  has  given 
her  life  to  you  and  your  children.  When  I  thought  of  her, 
I  felt  sure  I  would  be  punished  if  I  allowed  my  selfish  desire 
for  love  to  rob  her  of  the  only  joy  life  holds  for  her;  and, 
although  my  love  burns  higher  and  truer  for  you  than  ever 


• 


274  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

before,  I  realize  now  that  the  greatest  love  is  proved  by  the 
strength  of  character  to  put  it  from  one  if  it  is  wrong;  and 
that  poor  sad  little  woman's  face  would  always  come  between 
us,  poisoning  our  days  and  turning  our  nights  to  horror. 

"I  see  my  duty  to  her  plainly,  and  that  is  why  all  my  future 
success  will  never  bring  me  happiness.  But  I  am  resolved 
to  be  strong.  There  is  another  man  who  loves  me  devotedly. 
He  has  agreed,  so  great  is  his  love,  that,  as  I  can  never  love 
him  in  return,  he  will  live  with  me  as  a  brother  if  I  marry 
him.  And  I  shall  marry  him — before  you  receive  this  note. 
Why?  So  that  you  will  wire  that  poor  little  woman  in  Reno 
before  it  is  too  late  and  tell  her  to  come  back  home  and  bring 
the  children  to  their  father. 

"Perhaps  you  will  hate  me  for  what  I  am  doing.  But  there 
is  One  Who  Knows.  And  He  knows,  and  He  only,  how 
my  heart  is  torn  by  what  I  am  about  to  do.  But,  dear,  'I 
could  not  love  you  half  so  well,  loved  I  not  honor  more.' 

"BETH." 

Dirksmelter,  when  he  received  the  note,  sat  in  the  Argus 
office,  waiting  to  bear  Beth  the  first  copy  of  his  wildly  en- 
thusiastic notice.  When  he  had  read  what  she  had  written, 
the  sheets  fell  from  his  numb  fingers :  into  which  a  passing  copy 
boy  thrust,  as  previously  requested,  the  first  obtainable  copy 
of  the  afternoon  edition.  Mechanically,  Dirksmelter  opened 
it :  on  the  rear  page,  over  a  Reno  dateline,  were  small  headlines 
announcing  that  a  divorce  had  been  granted  to  the  wife  of 
the  well-known  critic,  Mrs.  Cadge  Dirksmelter,  alimony  $2,500 
per  annum. 


IV.  CHARLES  CHISHOLM  CANTILEVER: 
"BEST  SELLER" 


IN  years  to  come,  philologists  and  sciolists  of  the  twenty- 
first  century  will  exchange  amazed  glances,  as,  from 
dusty  libraries,  they  drag  down,  and  attempt  to  read, 
the  curious  popular  "  literature"  of  to-day,  with  its  gaudy 
illustrations  depicting  idealized  peasant  girls  in  silks  and  satins 
1 — bovine  creatures  of  body  and  lack  of  mentality,  who  pass 
for  the  queens,  duchesses,  millionaires'  daughters  and  other 
highborn  ladies  whose  adventures  the  public  of  the  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  centuries  bought  in  lots  of  from  fifty  thousand 
up.  These  scholarly  gentlemen  will  wonder  what  race  of  men 
so  lacked  a  sense  of  humor :  and  this  story  is  written  to  assist 
them,  for  it  proposes  to  show  one  of  the  race — an  attempt 
for  which  all  should  be  grateful,  since  publishers  do  not  circu- 
late such  portraits  plentifully.  Nor  are  publishers  any  more 
liberal  with  biographical  information  concerning  them:  the 
authors  would  not  be  able  to  write  such  wild  tales  of  adventure 
and  daring,  nor  such  chronicles  of  the  fashionable  world,  were 
they  adventurers,  themselves,  or,  at  least,  men  of  the  world. 
Charles  Chisholm  Cantilever  was  typical  of  the  class ;  both 
in  biography  and  appearance.  He  was  fleshy ;  he  was  almost 
bald;  and  he  had  never  left  his  native  town  in  the  Middle 
West  where  he  was  in  the  harness  trade  until  his  first  story 
had  been  accepted.  At  the  time  he  wrote  it,  "manly"  writing 
was  in  vogue — stories  in  which  "primitive"  or  "primordial" 
occurs  frequently,  and  in  which  melodrama  as  weird  and 

275 


276  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

wonderful  as  any  perpetrated  on  Eighth  Avenue  is  excused 
because  it  has  the  background  of  "the  wild."  From  a  metro- 
politan editor's  standpoint,  it  would  appear  that  melodrama 
is  thrills  in  civilization;  drama,  thrills  'mid  London's  icy 
mountains;  i.  e.,  Jack  London's. 

Cantilever  had  written  many  rejected  stories;  but  one 
summer  an  astute  literary  agent,  met  at  a  nearby  report, 
had  instructed  him  as  to  late  fall  fashions  in  fiction.  The 
"wilds"  story  was  the  result. 

The  agent  took  it  to  a  magazine  as  old  as  the  history  of 
American  letters;  whose  subscription  list,  several  months  be- 
fore, had  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  subscribers  quite  as  old. 
Despite  numerous  stories  in  the  very  best  form  in  which 
nothing  whatsoever  happened ;  despite  the  fact  that  these  tales 
were  made  up  in  equal  parts  of  the  most  careful  New  England 
dialect  and  of  "fine  writing";  despite  more  than  occasional 
colored  plates  illustrating  at  least  one  historical  narrative  in 
each  issue  (which  the  artist  often  wrote  himself  around  the 
pictures,  historical  short  stories  being  hard  to  get) ;  and  de- 
spite a  scientific  article  by  the  very  best  and  very  dullest 
authorities  on  what  the  larva  of  the  Coddis-worm  looks  like 
under  the  Great-Horn-Spoon  microscope;  despite,  we  say,  all 
these  conjunctive  portions  of  sentences,  that  venerable  vale- 
tudinarian was  losing  much  money.  Its  old  subscribers  were 
dying  and  possible  new  ones  said  it  ought  to  die,  too. 

At  about  this  time,  there  appeared  a  book  about  the  wilds 
that  was  real  literature.  Regretfully  the  valetudinarian's 
sponsors  were  forced  to  believe  this  must  be  so,  for  every 
respectable  literary  journal  affirmed  it.  In  the  sponsor's 
opinion,  the  story  was  a  trifle  low,  since  things  were  always 
happening  in  it.  Furthermore  it  was  not  historical,  not  about 
New  England,  and  almost  totally  without  conjunctions.  But 
not  for  them  to  argue  with  the  best  literary  authorities!  So 
gradually  a  vague  conviction  came  that,  if  they  could  secure 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         277 

such  a  story,  others  beside  men  eighty  years  old  might  sub- 
scribe to  their  periodical.  This  had  been  hinted  to  the  literary 
agent  who  now  bore  them  Cantilever's  story.  It  was  also  a 
trifle  low  (men  spat  tobacco  in  it  and  the  "damns"  were 
spelt  out,  indicating  "strength")  ;  things  happened  in  it  all 
the  time;  it  was  not  historical,  not  about  New  England,  and 
almost  totally  without  conjunctions. 

Since  the  other  tale  was  literature,  this — so  much  like  it 
in  all  salient  particulars — must  be  literature  also.  The 
valetudinarian  broke  a  half-century-old  rule  and  accepted  a 
story  by  a  new  writer.  Also,  they  sent  for  the  new  writer 
and  impressed  upon  him  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion.  Since 
they  had  accepted  his  story  he  must  be  a  genius:  he  must 
strive  always  to  be  a  genius.  Certain  crudites  (even  genius 
could  not  be  permitted  to  split  its  infinitives  and  say  "farther" 
when  it  meant  "further")  must  be  eliminated.  Also,  the 
editor  tried  to  show  him  that  the  conjunction  was  a  very 
gentlemanly  little  punctuation  mark  and  made  easier  reading 
than  frequent  shoot-you-in-the-eye  periods.  He  was  implored 
to  study  the  work  of  Mary  E.  Pinklinham  and  H.  Popcorn 
Smith,  apostles  of  the  divine  commonplace. 

Also  he  was  urged  not  to  have  so  many  things  happen  in 
his  stories.  Of  course,  the  editor  understood  that  you  could 
not  have  the  new  literature  of  the  wild  without  at  least  having 
a  timber  wolf  howl  at  a  Malamoot  dog.  But  why,  on  top  of 
that,  have  the  Malamoot  howl  back  at  the  timber  wolf?  Why 
not  save  that  for  a  sequel?  One  howl  was  sufficient  for  one 
story.  Popcorn  Smith  had  done  it.  Popcorn  had  written  a 
whole  story  on  how  it  made  him  feel  to  look  at  an  old  hat 
he  had  worn  on  the  occasion  of  his  only  time  of  voting  when 
he  had  found  the  other  voters  so  rough  that  he  went  home 
and  wrote  a  story  about  them  and  never  voted  again.  The 
valetudinarian  had  printed  the  story  and  thought  it  served 
the  voters  right.  Cantilever  was  recommended  to  study  this 


278  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

c 

story  as  a  masterpiece.  True,  it  was  not  about  New  England, 
but  then  one  couldn't  have  everything. 

Cantilever  walked  out  of  the  office  as  a  king  walks  out  of 
a  coronation  chamber,  and  soon  the  cognoscenti  were  climbing 
six  flights  to  his  studio,  sitting  under  paper  lanterns,  eating 
studio  delicatessen  and  talking  about  their  souls.  The  uglier 
the  men  and  the  scrawnier  the  women,  the  bigger  souls  they 
had.  Cantilever  soon  arrived  at  that  stage  of  shame  where 
he  could  call  the  cognoscenti  to  order  solely  to  read  them  some- 
thing he  had  just  written.  He  soon  became  an  adept  in  taking 
a  very  small  quarter  of  an  incident,  dressing  it  up  in  very 
large  words;  putting  in  much  dialect  and  many  descriptions 
of  the  weather's  influence  on  character,  and  calling  the  whole 
a  "psychological"  study.  After  he  had  published  continu- 
ously in  the  pages  of  the  valetudinarian  for  nearly  a  year 
and  had  been  acclaimed  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  "wild" 
writers,  the  editor  of  the  valetudinarian  advised  him  to  begin 
a  novel  which,  if  written  along  the  lines  of  his  short  stories, 
would  receive  publication  in  the  magazine  and — the  imprint 
of  its  publishing  house.  When  these  things  had  fyeen  done 
it  was  acclaimed  "the  great  American  novel."  A  playwright 
used  its  title  and  several  of  its  incidents  for  a  "dramatiza- 
tion"; while  the  novel,  reprinted  after  various  editions  in 
cheaper  form,  enjoyed  a  steady  sale  for  many  years. 

For,  in  justice,  let  it  be  said,  Cantilever  was  no  ordinary 
writer.  True,  he  took  seriously  everything  the  public  took 
seriously,  but  he  expressed  his  sentiments  through  men  speak- 
ing the  rich  slang  of  the  West  (then  little  exploited)  ;  the 
text  in  contrast  to  his  dialogue,  written  with  that  regard  for 
trifling  details  and  in  that  polished  peanut  style  that  passes  for 
Stevensonian  English  in  the  "culture"  clubs.  It  was  as  though 
George  M.  Starspangledbanner  had  taken  to  novel- writing, 
using  Charles  Lamb  for  his  model;  or  a  less  suave  St. 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         279 

Augustine  Thomas  to  surrounding  his  sallies  with  descrip- 
tions. 

Soon  afterward,  one  saw  pictures  of  Cantilever  in  literary 
magazines,  standing  before  his  "pretty  country  home,"  or 
riding  "in  his  new  car."  Photographers  clamored  for  sittings, 
free.  Some  associate  editors  went  up  for  week-ends  to  write 
articles  about  his  life  and  work.  He  was  a  "best  seller,"  but, 
more  than  that,  he  received  the  praise  of  the  tame  critics  as 
an  excellent  craftsman  and  delineator  of  character,  none  of 
your  reincarnations  of  Mary  J.  Holmes  and  Sylvanus  Cobb 
who  imitate  Anthony  Hope  with  a  Chicago  accent.  Also,  he 
drew  royalties  on  a  play,  nine-tenths  another  man's  work,  but, 
for  using  the  trademark  of  his  successful  novel,  three-quarters 
his.  In  a  phrase,  he  was  one  of  the  glories  of  American 
lithrachoor  (as  distinguished  from  literature) ;  but,  when  he 
clumsily  tried  to  make  love  to  Molly  Macquoid,  she  was  very 
angry  at  such  a  ridiculous  little  fat  man  trying  to  "make  fun" 
of  her. 

Molly  was  in  love  with  Ned  Winchester. 


II 

CANTILEVER  had  known  Winchester  ever  since  each  had 
published  his  first  book.  The  valetudinarian's  publisher 
brought  Winchester's  out,  too,  and  the  two  authors  had  met 
in  the  office  while  waiting  for  royalty  statements.  Winchester's 
book,  recognized  as  a  valuable  contribution  to  literature, 
showed  less  than  a  thousand  copies  sold.  Cantilever  was 
almost  as  sorry  for  Winchester  as  Winchester  was  for  him, 
and  the  former,  insisting  on  their  dining  together,  had  ex- 
plained to  Winchester  the  faults  of  his  style  and  system.  He 
had  read  Winchester's  book  only  because  the  publisher  had 
sent  it. 


280  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"You  want  Action,"  said  Cantilever.  "And  Love.  Some- 
thing doing  all  the  time.  Now,  when  your  man  goes  out  to 
rob  the  priest — you  should  never  have  him  rob  a  priest  any- 
way: look  how  many  readers  you  offend  that  way — " 

"But  that  was  the  point,"  said  Winchester.  "The  man  was 
an  ignorant  but  sincere  Christian.  He  finds  that  the  priest  has 
committed  a  sin  and  it  ruins  his  belief  in  Christianity.  Then 
when  the  priest  catches  him  at  the  robbery,  the  man  shoots 
it  back,  and  the  priest  wakes  up  to  the  fact  that  his  life  is 
not  his  own,  that  ignorant  people  to-day  are  the  same  as  when 
they  prayed  to  idols,  only,  now,  the  priest's  the  idol." 

"But  that  isn't  so,"  said  Cantilever  positively.  "A  priest 
is  a  man.  An  idol  was  stone  or  wood.  It  couldn't  intercede. 
The  priest  can." 

Winchester  gave  him  up.  Cantilever  continued  trium- 
phantly: "But  let  that  go.  I  was  talking  about  Action.  Your 
man  goes  to  rob.  You  get  your  readers  excited.  But,  on 
the  way  to  the  robbery,  you  have  page  after  page  telling  how 
he  felt.  Now,  frankly,  I  skipped  that.  I  wanted  to  see  how 
he  got  into  the  house  and  whether  he  got  caught  or  not. 
Action.  See  ?" 

"I  see,"  said  Winchester. 

"Well,  that's  one  point.  Now  about  Love.  If  you'd  had 
him  rob  the  priest  for  some  girl's  sake — not  selfishly,  you  see 
— to  give  her  dying  mother  some  fruit  or  wine  to  make  her 
last  moments  easier — " 

"But  the  priest  would  have  done  that,"' objected  Win- 
chester, smiling. 

"Wouldn't  accept  it  from  a  Catholic — that  would  make  a 
hit  with  your  Protestant  readers.  No,  sooner  die  than  take 
anything  from  Romish  idolaters — something  like  that.  Or  if 
the  girl's  brother  was  in  trouble — going  to  jail,  say —  Hero 
risks  jail  himself  to  save  brother.  Better  still:  have  him — 
the  hero — a  Catholic  and  believe  that  he'll  be  damned  eternally 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        281 

for  robbing  the  priest.  But  Love — Love  conquers  aft.  After- 
ward you  could  have  him  won  over  to  the  Protestant  Church, 
still  by  Love.  Love  and  Religion,  both.  Religion's  good. 
I'll  use  Religion  myself,  in  my  next.  Then  a  lot  of  people'll 
buy  it  who  wouldn't  buy  ordinary  novels.  Look  at  'Ben.  Hur' 
— millions !  See  ?" 

"I  see,"  said  Winchester. 

"Now  about  your  heroine,"  Cantilever  went  on;  "she's 
married  and  you  have  her  in  love  with  another  man — the  priest. 
But  that's  not  what  I'm  criticising.  You  could  have  made 
a  beautiful  story  of  that  if  you'd  had  her  cherish  her  secret 
all  through  the  years.  But  he  knew;  he  knew,  because  her 
hand  trembled  at  confession  or  something  and  betrayed  her. 
And  he  loved  her,  too,  but  his  vows  were  sacred :  that  makes 
a  hit  with  your  Catholics.  Beautiful,  see  ?" 

"I  see,"  said  Winchester. 

"And  then  she  sacrifices  her  life  to  save  something  of  his 
— well — say,  some  book,  religious  book — his  life's  work.  Fire ! 
She  runs  back  into  burning  house,  tosses  manuscript  out  of 
window,  he  becomes  a  Cardinal  through  it;  then,  finally,  they 
offer  to  make  him  Pope.  'No,'  he  says,  'no,  for  in  my  heart 
I  was  untrue  to  my  vows.  And  even  yet,  a  woman  is  en- 
throned there.  I  cannot  be  your  Pope.'  See?  Beautiful!" 

"I  see,"  said  Winchester. 

"Then"  —  Cantilever  paused,  exhausted.  "Then  —  well, 
anyhow,  that's  the  right  way.  But  a  good  woman  deceiving 
her  husband — a  good  woman — brought  up  right !  .  .  .  No,  sir. 
It's  not  nature.  Not  a  good  woman.  If  you  could  have 
shown  how  she  really  was  a  bad  woman,  posing  as  good.  But 
good  women  don't  do  such  things.  See?" 

"I've  got  to  be  going,"  said  Winchester,  rising.  "Im- 
portant engagement."  He  never  allowed  himself  to  be  en- 
trapped into  a  lengthy  conversation  with  Cantilever  again. 

But  they  had  met  on  the  street  when  Winchester  was  in 


BIRDS  OF  PREY 

town  during  the  big-snow  season ;  and  to  avoid  having  Canti- 
lever talk,  Winchester  had  told  him  how  cheaply  he  had 
bought  land  in  the  wilderness.  Cantilever  had  always  cher- 
ished a  desire  to  be  the  squire  of  some  rural  district,  to  have 
a  "manor  house"  with  a  moat  and  the  villagers  touching  their 
caps.  And,  besides,  he  was  in  that  frame  of  mind  that  results 
from  too  many  poker  parties,  too  much  drink,  too  much 
Tenderloin.  He  spoke  sentimentally  of  the  "fresh,  pure  life 
of  the  country."  So,  when  the  spring  thaw  came,  he  sent  up 
a  surveyor  and  an  agent  and  bought  up  some  hundreds  of 
acres.  Later,  "a  manor  house"  with  a  moat  was  erected,  and 
that  summer  he  took  possession. 

All  this  had  been  some  years  before :  during  which  he  had 
tried  to  soften  the  heart  of  Molly  Macquoid;  and  she  had 
been  equally  unsuccessful  in  bringing  her  affair  with  Win- 
chester to  any  satisfactory  conclusion,  though  she  haunted  the 
woods  near  his  house  and  invited  herself  to  lunches  with  him. 
For  Winchester  had  read  her  eyes  long  since,  and  was  de- 
termined he  would  do  nothing  that  would  give  her  any  hold 
upon  him.  At  that  time,  he  was  just  beginning  his  biggest 
work:  he  meant  to  prove  that  Nature's  cruelties  always  re- 
sulted in  great  good,  shedding  new  light  on  history  by  showing 
cause  as  well  as  effect.  It  meant  solid  work  and  he  could  not 
be  bothered  by  girls. 

So  Molly  revenged  herself  by  making  Cantilever's  life 
absolutely  miserable,  torturing  him  with  an  ingenuity  worthy 
of  an  inquisitor.  Yet  he  stayed  on  and  on  through  the  winter 
season,  even  through  the  big  snows.  He  knew  so  little  of 
women  that  he  believed  he  could  "make  her  care." 

Ill 

"LiFE  is  a  comedy  to  those  who  think,"  said  Horace  Wai- 
pole  some  centuries  since.  Ned,  being  a  thinker,  got  most 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        283 

of  his  amusement  watching  his  brother  humans  take  on  self- 
importance  (because  they  had  wasted  their  lives  acquiring 
what  would  never  benefit  them),  struggling  for  social  and 
political  honors  that  were  the  strait- jackets  robbing  them  of 
what  little  freedom  life  had  allowed  them.  And,  of  all  coun- 
tries under  the  sun,  he  found  his  own  the  most  amusing;  for 
here  almost  everybody  was  pretending  to  be  somebody  else; 
with  "bluff"  and  pose,  accent  and  conversation,  clothes  and 
houses,  servants  and  motors;  putting  their  souls'  prison  cells 
so  deep  that  they  never  saw  sun  nor  stars,  nor  anything  else 
worth  seeing. 

Naturally,  such  people  being  in  the  majority,  the  public 
did  not  appreciate  a  writer  who  showed  them  in  prison  when 
they  wanted  to  think  they  were  in  a  castle.  So  Winchester 
contributed  only  to  those  periodicals  that  reached  the  people 
who  loved  the  truth;  not  a  hundred  thousand  in  a  country 
of  a  hundred  million.  With  small  subscription  lists,  these 
periodicals  could  not  afford  to  pay  high  prices.  But  Ned 
did  not  care.  To  lie  outdoors  in  clement  weather,  or  in  the 
winter  high  up  in  his  mountain  cabin,  hours  upon  hours, 
thinking  out  cosmic  problems;  then,  flushed  and  happy,  to 
seize  a  pen  and  write,  rejoicing  in  the  rhythmic  ring  of  his 
sentences,  polishing  each  until  it  was  an  individual  of  truth, 
conciseness,  and  lyrical  quality — such  a  life  does  not  leave 
room  for  many  physical  cravings.  Ned  was  not  bothered  by 
his  body:  to  him  it  was  but  the  tool  of  his  mind.  It  is  aston- 
ishing, when  one  really  knows  how  to  enjoy  life,  how  little 
the  life  of  the  city  means,  with  its  restaurants  and  theaters, 
women  and  wine.  Ned  found  the  fish  and  game  the  woods 
and  the  streams  afforded  more  to  his  taste  than  French  cook- 
ing. He  saw  scenery  more  wonderful  in  sunrise  and  sunset, 
drama  more  absorbing  in  the  play  of  ideas  than  theaters  could 
give  him.  As  for  women,  he  had  found  that  they  would  come 
into  a  man's  life  whether  he  willed  it  or  not,  and,  when  they 


284  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

did,  the  incidents  were  all  the  more  charming  because  they 
were  unsought  and  unexpected.  The  search  for  them,  with 
vine-leaves  in  the  hair,  he  left  to  the  unintelligent  who  needed 
false  excitement  to  enjoy  life. 

Such  was  Ned  Winchester  at  thirty-five,  and  the  difference 
between  him  and  Cantilever  could  not  be  more  marked  in 
anything  than  in  the  way  in  which  Molly  Macquoid  affected 
each.  Ned  had  noticed  her  as  particularly  pretty  but  had 
never  thought  about  her  twice.  Charles  Chisholm  Cantilever 
had  written  two  novels  with  her  as  heroine;  but,  when  in 
her  presence,  found  his  writing  vocabulary  too  florid  for 
serious  use,  and  he  had  lived  too  long  in  a  sentimental  writing- 
world  to  have  any  other  for  a  "good"  woman.  Had  she  been 
the  other  kind,  he  would  have  been  worse  than  a  bore,  for 
he  flattered  himself  he  knew  how  to  handle  them,  not  realizing 
that  one  of  the  handicaps  of  their  profession  was  to  endure 
such  as  he.  But  a  "good  woman"  .  .  .  He  felt  it  was  the 
proper  thing  (as  per  his  novels)  to  abase  himself  before  her 
purity  and,  after  telling  his  sad  story,  be  given  a  chance  to 
make  himself  worthy.  But  Molly  never  gave  him  any  chance 
even  to  tell  the  sad  story:  in  fact,  she  was  apt  to  hum  tunes 
if  she  sensed  any  elephantine  efforts  to  approach  elegies  and 
eulogies.  He  had  lost  track  of  the  number  of  times  he  had 
been  forced  to  blurt  out  a  proposal  of  marriage  without  any 
chance  to  lead  up  to  it,  dramatically,  by  humilifics. 

Of  Molly,  there  is  nothing  in  particular  to  know  except 
that  she  had  been  gifted  with  slow  Chinese  eyes  and  a  little 
lazy  body  of  surpassing  sensual  charm,  to  which  <the  life  of 
the  little  backwoods  settlement  had  added  a  ruddy  glow,  so 
that  her  clear  tawny  skin  was  continually  alive  with  color. 
Her  teeth  were  as  white  as  those  of  any  other  of  the  forest 
animals;  nor  did  her  ideas  of  life  differ  greatly  from  theirs, 
although  she  had  for  a  parent  the  district  circuit-rider  who, 
during  his  brief  stays  at  home,  had  instilled  into  her  certain 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         285 

of  Mr.  Peloubet's  able  Sunday  excerpts.  Her  mother,  of  a 
family  that  had  been  bourgeois  habitants  for  years,  was  as 
respectable  as  she  was  dull,  but  she  was  wiser  than  her  hus- 
band, knowing  Molly  was  not  meant  to  be  what  she  (her 
mother)  called  a  respectable  woman,  so  wished  to  shift  re- 
sponsibility to  some  marrying  man.  Therefore,  she  rejoiced 
at  Cantilever's  repeated  proposals  and  made  Molly  pay  heavy 
penalties  for  rejecting  them.  She  imagined  it  was  because  of 
these  that  Molly  finally  accepted  and  married  him:  the  real 
reason  would  have  shortened  her  years  by  a  score. 

IV 

IT  was  none  other  than  the  departure  of  Ned  Winchester 
to  New  York  for  the  one  reason  sufficient  to  recompense  him 
for  the  loss  of  his  silences,  solitude  and  scenery:  the  editor- 
ship of  Parnassus,  to  which  he  had  been  long  a  star  con- 
tributor. It  had  been  unexpected :  there  was  nothing  to  choose 
between  him  and  his  predecessor,  both  being  of  equal  philo- 
sophical and  literary  stature,  both  absolutely  altruistic  in  their 
devotion  to  high  literary  ideals,  both  destined  to  emerge  from 
contemporary  obscurity  (so  far  as  public  appreciation  went) 
into  enduring  fame.  But  an  accidental  germ  intervened  and 
left  Winchester  a  longer  span  in  which  to  build  his  pyramid, 
and,  as  there  was  question  as  to  who  should  instruct  and  lead 
the  smaller  but  equally  eager  disciples,  Winchester  sacrificed 
his  personal  inclinations  and  returned  to  the  city,  to  choke 
after  the  mountain  air  in  a  steam-heated  office  and  to  hold 
his  aching  head  amid  the  city's  noise.  His  living  quarters, 
overlooking  an  old  Square,  were  more  to  his  taste:  he  had 
a  fireplace  there  and,  when  he  built  up  a  log  fire  and  sat  in  the 
dusk  looking  over  the  tree  tops,  he  could  half-imagine — 
save  when  an  "L"  train  thundered  across  a  nearby  block — • 
that  he  was  anywhere  except  in  the  city  he  loathed. 


286  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Thus  he  was  sitting  and  thus  imagining,  forgetting  his 
dinner,  when  Molly  Macquoid  re-entered  his  life. 

But  it  was  not  the  same  Molly:  indeed,  Ned  imagined 
her  one  of  the  patrons  of  the  portrait-painter  across  the  hall, 
in  and  out  of  whose  studio  flitted  just  such  visions  in  costly 
furs.  The  dusk  would  account  for  her  mistake,  of  which 
he  rose  to  acquaint  her.  But  Molly  had  taken  too  many 
chances  and  risks,  had  waited  too  long,  to  go  through  polite 
ceremonies  such  as  his  constrained  rising  presaged.  She 
must  put  him  at  a  disadvantage,  immediately,  and  women 
know  from  childhood  that  this  is  done  best  by  throwing  them- 
selves on  men's  mercy.  A  man  welcomes  violence  from  the 
woman  he  does  not  love:  it  gives  him  courage  to  be  brutal, 
irrevocable.  But  how  many  miserable  ones  linger  on  in  chains 
of  pity,  unable  to  refuse  anything  to  those  who  give  all  and 
ask  nothing!  So  before  Ned  could  speak,  Molly  was  in  his 
arms,  sobbing  bitterly  .  .  .  collapsing.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  unfair  advantage  to  take.  Besides  making  him 
feel  responsible,  Molly  intended  he  should  know  it  was 
pleasant  to  hold  her  rounded  body  close,  to  feel  her  warm, 
vibrant  cheeks  against  his  own.  He  had  never  availed  himself 
of  previous  manifest  invitations,  thus  robbing  her  of  her 
most  effective  weapon.  So  now  she  made  no  particular  effort 
to  be  coherent,  forcing  him  to  draw  out  each  word  of  an 
explanation  punctuated  liberally  with  tears  of  self-pity  and 
interspersed  with  frequent  iterations  of  her  unconquerable 
love  for  him.  She  had  tried  to  forget  him  after  he  went 
away;  but  it  had  driven  her  only  to  attempted  suicide  from 
which  her  mother  had  saved  her  by  snatching  the  bottle.  Then 
she  realized  how  tragically  absurd  she  had  been:  Ned  might 
not  love  her;  but  he  did  not  hate  her.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Ned  in  acute  suffering.  But  she  did 
not  spare  him,  going  on  in  abject  humility.  .  .  . 

If  she  could  get  to  the  city,  at  least  he  would  allow  her 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        287 

to  come  to  see  him  as  she  had  done  in  the  mountains ;  she  had 
not  bothered  him,  had  she?  (He  held  her  tightly,  hating 
himself.)  But  how  to  get  away?  She  tried  once,  twice,  both 
times  was  caught,  after  the  last  time  confined  to  her  room 
for  weeks.  Entered  upon  the  scene  one  Willard  Smith,  a 
traveling  salesman,  who  had  loved  her  at  sight  and  whom, 
shortly  after,  her  mother  thankfully  permitted  her  to  marry. 

Yes,  she  had  endured  even  that;  but  she  knew  the  ex- 
igencies of  Smith's  occupation  must  bring  her  near  to  New 
York  and  to  Ned.  (He  groaned,  uttering  under  his  breath 
oaths  more  awestricken  than  profane.)  And,  when  they  had 
come  to  Boston,  she  had  left  Smith  and  made  straight  for 
her  goal.  How  she  had  wanted  to  come  to  him  then!  She 
had  walked  to  the  old  Square,  irresolute,  many  times.  But  no  1 
Ned  had  only  enough  for  himself.  Besides,  no  suspicion  of 
mercenary  motives  must  taint  her  great  love.  Again,  what 
claim  had  she  on  Ned?  What  could  she  give  her  wonderful 
lover  in  exchange  for  the  precious  time  she  wasted?  .  .  . 

"Oh,  don't,  Molly,"  said  Winchester  in  an  agony  of  humili- 
ation that  she  should  so  abase  herself — which  was  what  she 
wanted.  She  was  fighting  for  her  own  unscrupulously  since 
fairly  she  could  not  win. 

"Isn't  it  sof"  she  asked,  her  tone  low  and  humble. 

"No,"  he  returned.  "No:  what  have  /  to  give  half  as  pre- 
cious as  your  devotion?  Nothing." 

"Yourself — nothing?"  she  asked,  as  one  stricken  at  the 
indiscretion  of  a  God. 

He  groaned  again.  So,  she  went  on,  he  could  see  her  any 
night  in  the  show  at  the  Folly  Theater.  She  had  waited  until 
she  was  out  of  the  chorus,  until  she  had  attained  a  part,  but 
every  night  at  this  hour  she  had  come  by  to  see  his  study 
window  light  up  and  his  dear  shadow  fall  across  the  Square. 
If  she  might  be  allowed  to  come  at  that  time  any  day-^ 
every  day  if  he  didn't  mind — they  could  have  dinner  together 


288  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

there  in  the  studio  before  she  went  to  the  theater.  She 
wouldn't  be  a  burden :  she'd  bring  the  nicest  things.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  my  God,  Molly !"  He  almost  yelled.  "Don't,  don't, 
don't!" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.     "You  don't  want  me?" 

"Want  you!  Yes,  my  God,  yes!  But  don't  say  such 
things:  burden  and  bother:  I  want  you — "  And  then,  being 
a  gentleman,  he  lied :  "As  much  as  you  want  me." 

And,  really,  he  did  want  her.  He  had  imagined  the  age 
had  been  passed  for  him  when  one  woman  could  count  much 
more  than  another ;  but  such  devotion  from  one  so  lovely  had 
altered  his  opinion.  Always  attractive  to  women,  winning 
them  easily  enough  because  of  his  indifference  added  to  his 
knowledge  of  their  fundamentals,  plus  an  attractive  personality 
and  a  positive  style  of  speech  despite  his  cadenced  voice, 
he  had  yet  of  late  seen  too  much  of  the  intellectual  type. 
Molly  Macquoid  came  as  a  breath  of  mountain  air.  And  she 
had  made  it  so  easy  for  him  to  take  her :  conscience  could  not 
interfere.  She  had  left  her  parents  married,  and  though  she 
had  left  her  husband,  was  there  any  way  to  persuade  her  to 
return  to  him?  She  was  not  in  a  position  to  demand  that 
Ned  prove  his  love  by  marriage,  nor  did  she  ask  him  to  com- 
promise the  standing  of  Parnasus — his  first  and  only  ideal 
love — by  any  alliance  that,  to  malicious  gossiping  Philistines, 
could  be  called  ugly  names.  After  having  decided  that  half 
a  loaf  was  the  most  she  could  get,  she  had  laid  her  plans, 
ruthlessly,  that  there  be  no  slip  in  her  getting  that  half.  There 
was  no  way  for  Ned  to  refuse.  Nor  did  he  want  to. 

So,  soon  he  was  disappointed  if  she  missed  a  day.  She 
came  always  at  the  same  hour:  between  six-thirty  and  seven; 
and  he  had  always  a  table  laid  for  two,  and  often  he  would 
wait  until  the  time  when  he  knew  the  assistant  stage-manager 
was  calling  "Overture"  along  the  dressing-room  halls,  for, 
sometimes,  she  would  come  almost  as  late  as  this,  snatch  a 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         289 

hurried  embrace,  rain  kisses,  and  fly  back  to  her  waiting 
taxicab.  Almost  inevitably  she  contributed  costly  luxuries — 
fruit  out  of  season,  salmon  such  as  they  caught  back  home, 
bar-le-duc  guava — and  somehow  she  learned  what  expensive 
foreign  editions  Winchester  could  not  afford  to  buy  and  left 
a  standing  order  with  the  foreign-publications  clerk  at  Cen- 
tavo's.  No  use  for  Ned  to  rail  and  threaten  to  pitch  the  things 
out  of  the  windows:  "I've  got  a  right  to  do  what  I  like 
with  my  money,"  Molly  would  submit  defensively,  "and  if 
it  gives  me  pleasure,  it's  none  of  your  business." 

She  learned  to  be  silent  when  she  had  nothing  worth  saying 
— a  difficult  feat  rarely  encountered  in  either  woman  or  man; 
but  in  Ned's  work  and  ambitions  she  had  not  the  smallest 
interest,  taking  no  trouble  to  acquaint  herself  with  the  reasons 
why  those  foreign  books  were  precious.  But  unconsciously 
she  absorbed  his  outlook  upon  life  as  a  comedy,  and,  having 
done  so,  supplied  him  with  marvelous  material  by  recounting 
the  egotisms  and  inanities  of  those  celebrities  with  whom  her 
stagework  brought  her  in  touch.  Indeed,  Ned's  first  stories 
to  gain  any  wide  appeal  came  from  her — stage  stories  being, 
just  then,  in  vogue — and  enabled  him  to  purchase  for  her 
some  pretty  bits  of  new-art  jewelry. 

For  Winchester,  their  arrangement  was  ideal.  It  gave  him 
the  necessary  feminine  touch  to  his  life  without  which  he  might 
have  been  apt  to  degenerate  into  the  mere  snuffy  scholar; 
it  did  not  interfere  even  slightly  with  the  work  to  which  he 
had  devoted  his  life;  it  broadened  the  work  by  keeping  him 
to  practice  and  away  from  theory;  and,  by  and  bye,  as  such 
things  slowly  shape  themselves,  fashionable  women,  ever  on 
the  outlook  for  new  fads,  began  to  discover  the  obscure 
shelves  on  which  book-sellers  placed  his  books ;  and,  with  the 
eager  air  of  Columbuses,  advertised  their  discovery,  calling 
him  all  that  he  was  not,  "cynical,"  "blase,"  an  American 
Bernard  Shaw, — all  that  Shaw  was  not,  either.  He 


290  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

declined  their  invitations  to  examine  him,  much  to  his  pub- 
lishers' disgust. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  publisher — the  new  sort,  a  gentle- 
man, a  scholar,  yet  a  man  of  the  world  with  a  care  for  his 
tailor  and  haberdasher :  "you've  got  the  chance  I've  been 
waiting  for,  that  I  knew  would  come  some  day;  and  now 
you  won't  take  advantage  of  it.  What  makes  public  opinion 
to-day?  The  Sunday  supplements.  And  who  makes  the  sup- 
plements? These  smart  women.  Look  how  socialism  and 
woman  suffrage  have  been  boomed  since  they  went  in  for  it. 
And  now  they've  gone  in  for  you:  they'll  boom  you,  too" 

"I  never  cared  particularly  about  popularity  or  money, 
Sam,"  Ned  replied. 

"Damn  popularity;  damn  money,"  his  publisher  said 
violently.  "It's  getting  your  stuff  across  that  counts — edu- 
cating the  public  up  to  an  appreciation  of  what's  really  good. 
When  we  do,  that  means  the  end  of  dirty  grafting  politicians, 
cheap  lying  advertisements,  Wall  Street,  and  all  the  sores  of 
American  civilization.  Isn't  that  what  you're  after  ?" 

Winchester  nodded. 

"Well,  then,  go  to  their  kettle  drums,  their  pink  teas,  their 
house  parties,  their  dinners;  they'll  make  you  fashionable. 
And  when  you're  that,  you  can  spit  in  the  public's  eye  and 
it'll  say  'Thank  you.'  The  one  thing  the  common  people  will 
copy  is  'smartness.'  The  milliner  in  Keokuk,  the  manicurist 
at  Curate's,  the  dressmaker  in  Sioux  City,  the  store-girls  at 
Lacy's,  and  the  plumber's  wife  in  Meridian,  will  all  read  your 
books,  just  as  they'll  wear  some  outrageous  split  skirt,  if  they 
hear  Mrs.  Van  Punk  and  Miss  De  Cheese  are  doing  it.  And 
they'll  hear  it  all  right  in  the  colored  section  of  the  Sunday 
yellows.  They'll  print  ridiculous  lies  about  you  and  illustrate 
them  with  pictures  of  Tony  de  Bastellane  and  Andre  de  la 
Foque.  You'll  have  to  stand  sponsor  for  every  wild  theory 
under  the  sun,  but  they'll  make  you,  just  as  they  made  the 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        291 

Fabian  Giant  and  the  Five  Towns  fellow,  and  the  French 
philosopher  with  the  German  name.  And,  without  deviating 
one  inch  from  artistic  ideas,  you'll  cram  your  wisdom  down 
the  public's  throat  and  if  they  manage  to  digest  one  or  two 
thoughts,  why  maybe  next  election  they  won't  vote  for  Tam- 
many and  kindred  spirits,  won't  read  Cantilever's  spring  novel, 
won't  call  cubists  crazy,  won't  refer  to  anyone  with  the  ghost 
of  an  idea  as  a  'highbrow.'  A  half-good  novel  in  circulation 
is  worth  more  than  an  all-good  one  on  the  bookshelf.  You 
can  never  see  that,  but  at  least  you  do  see  what  an  all-good 
one  in  circulation  is.  So  you've  just  got  to  accept  every  in- 
vitation a  smart  woman  sends  you.  D'you  hear?" 

It  was  thus  that  Ned  Winchester  paid  a  visit  to  his  pub- 
lishers, tailor  and  haberdasher — each  the  smartest  of  their 
kind  upon  the  Avenue — and  the  "intellectuals"  in  smart  so- 
ciety had  a  new  sensation,  to  wit :  a  tall,  thin  fellow,  outwardly 
in  no  way  to  be  distinguished  from  any  other  man  of  their 
acquaintance  save  for  a  longer  stretch  and  width  of  forehead 
and  deeper  set  of  eyes,  commenting  casually  upon  their  most 
cherished  ideas  as  one  who  approves  of  toys  for  children  and 
a  belief  in  Santa  Claus.  There  was  no  pose  to  Ned  Win- 
chester; his  speech  held  no  desperate  striving  after  clever 
effects,  no  brummagem  "wit"  that  lies  in  perverting  proverbs 
and  inverting  epigrams,  no  double  meanings  tending  toward 
the  bedroom,  no  glorification  of  sexual  appeal,  no  democratic 
belief  in  the  wisdom  or  equality  of  the  masses.  His  creed 
was  simple.  He  believed  the  strong  should  protect,  guide, 
and  rule  the  weak;  his  motto  was,  "Service  is  strength";  his 
contempt  for  those  born  strong  who  wasted  their  efforts  in 
providing  nobly  for  themselves  was  profound:  "No  strong 
man  can  use  one-thousandth  of  what  he  can  get  if  he  is  selfish, 
and  the  surplus  breeds  unhappiness  for  him,  misery  for  those 
he  took  it  from."  Admiring  the  great  Englishmen  of  litera- 
lure,  the  great  manly  British  institutions,  he  yet  loathed 


292  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Americans  who  endeavored  to  graft  British  snobbery  and 
accent  on  our  institutions.  Reverent  to  the  great  German 
philosophers,  he  hated  those  who  would  try  to  adapt  their 
socialistic  teachings  to  a  country  made  up  mostly  of  raw 
material,  hundreds  of  years  removed  from  the  European 
standard  of  thought  and  education. 

He  was  a  great  social  success,  and  his  obscure  books  were 
republished  in  a  new  format,  leather  for  the  rich,  boards  for 
others,  and  advertised  by  department  stores  in  complete  sets 
like  any  classic. 


His  debut  in  society  changed  other  lives  than  his  own. 
Molly  Macquoid  was  never  sure  of  finding  him  home  at  dusk 
any  more,  for  then  it  was  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  some 
Plaza  or  Murray  Hill  dinner.  Nor  was  she  able  to  go  her 
way  happily  to  rehearsals,  shopping,  and  performances,  secure 
in  the  knowledge  that  during  the  day  his  editorial  duties 
claimed  him,  at  night  his  writing.  She  considered  again. 
Shaw  has  said  that  a  clever  woman  prefers  one-tenth  of  an 
exceptional  man  to  all  of  a  commonplace  one.  But  Molly 
was  clear-sighted,  as  are  most  women  when  it  comes  to  the 
man  they  love,  and  she  knew  that  these  days  Ned  was  meeting 
the  best  of  womankind  that  America  had  to  show,  women 
as  pretty  as  she,  and,  more  than  that,  possessing  some  sort 
of  sympathy  for  his  work  that  she  had  not,  plus  a  social  posi- 
tion and  sufficient  money  to  surround  his  working  hours  with 
luxuries  she  could  not  give — a  change  of  climate  for  every 
season,  for  instance,  and  a  residence  in  many  countries.  She 
knew  the  chances  were  that  she  might  cease  to  possess  even 
the  one-tenth  of  Ned  with  which,  hitherto,  she  had  been 
content.  He  might  marry  one  of  those  slender  arrogant 
women  whose  pictures  faced  her  own  on  the  newspaper  page 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO        293 

^^lk 

opposite  the  players,  more  than  occasionally  rendering  cheap 
their  more  flamboyant  type  of  beauty  and  attire. 

Considering,  then,  without  egotism  as  before,  she  realized 
that  there  were  too  few  really  remarkable  men  in  the  world 
for  Ned  to  escape  many  blandishments  as  bold  as  her  own 
had  been.  But  it  would  require  time  to  sponge  away  the 
loyalty  that  her  own  devotion  and  gifts  had  inspired  when  he 
was  (according  to  Molly's  ideas)  nobody.  So  she  must  act 
while  she  still  had  the  advantage  over  this  other  superior 
type  of  women,  unscrupulously  advantage  herself  of  his  good 
nature,  forge  new  fetters  of  pity.  In  setting  about  her  plans, 
she  considered  Charles  Chisholm  Cantilever's  feelings  less  than 
she  would  have  those  of  her  lap  dog;  he  had  merely  graduated 
from  an  annoyance  to  a  convenience,  and  having  ceased  to 
serve  in  the  latter  capacity,  she  must  rid  herself  of  him. 

She  was,  as  I  told  you,  married  to  Cantilever.  It  had  been 
a  result  of  her  realization  that,  even  did  she  manage  to  escape 
to  New  York,  Winchester  would  send  her  back  to  her  parents. 
He  did  not  care  for  her  sufficiently  to  incur  for  life  the  re- 
sponsibility of  her  future;  and  of  this  Molly  was  well  aware. 
More:  she  doubted  even  if  he  cared  enough  to  permit  her  to 
visit  him  if  he  knew  she  was  married  to  another  man  and 
living  in  her  husband's  house,  so  she  had  invented  the  story 
about  the  traveling  salesman,  secure  in  the  fact  that  there  was 
no  one  back  there  in  the  woods  to  whom  Ned  would  write 
and  that  his  path  and  Cantilever's  lay  in  opposite  directions 
in  New  York,  so  that  there  was  little  chance  of  their  meeting. 
That  chance  she  must  take,  but  she  had  done  her  best  to  avoid 
any  other  chances.  Thus  she  had  refrained  from  visiting 
Winchester  until  it  could  be  done  regularly  in  absolute  safety. 
One  of  the  conditions  under  which  she  had  married  Cantilever 
had  been  his  promise  to  put  her  on  the  stage,  thus  rendering 
her  independent  of  him  should  ever  the  crash  come.  With 
the  prestige  of  his  popular  name,  he  had  easily  secured  her 
promotion  from  the  chorus  after  a  few  months  especially  as 


294  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Molly  had  endeared  herself  to  the  great  Bob  Ledyard,  pro- 
ducer, by  working  overtime  on  eccentric  dance  steps  and 
singing  lessons;  and  her  husband  could  please  the  artistic 
costume-designer  by  paying  for  most  expensive  and  dazzling 
frocks  the  designer  dared  not  suggest  to  the  management.  So 
when  given  a  simple  part  of  the  "Carmen"  (visual)  type, 
Molly  had  conquered  the  front-row  Johns  and  the  gallery 
boys  by  her  bold  beauty,  her  sensational  tiger-skin  costume 
that  left  her  magnificent  limbs  half-exposed,  the  daring  sen- 
suousness  of  her  glances  and  utter  abandon  of  her  body  when 
(with  a  less  spectacular  but  more  experienced  male  partner 
who  provided  most  of  the  terpsichorean  skill)  she  was  given 
the  newest  Barbary  Coast  "dip"  dance;  the  fame  of  which 
soon  carried  her  name  to  vaudeville  magnates  and  to  society 
dancers  who  imitated  her  at  Tango  teas  and  Canary  cotil- 
lions. And,  while  the  "Johns"  down  front  eagerly  discussed 
their  chances  of  meeting  her  and  sent  messages  on  cards  con- 
cealed in  bouquets  and,  sometimes,  inside  soft  untanned- 
leather  cases  from  Griffony's,  Charles  Chisholm  Cantilever  sat. 
fatuously  beaming,  or  lounged,  proudly  in  the  lobby  and  round 
the  horseshoe-circle  at  the  back,  thinking  himself  admired  and 
envied  whereas  her  unceremonious  treatment  of  him  back 
stage  led  the  performers  to  believe  (for  they  never  read  any- 
thing but  the  trade- journals  of  the  profession)  that  he  was 
that  contemptible  thing,  a  stage-husband  dependent  upon  his 
wife's  pay. 

But  she  ignored  the  "Johns,"  was  blind  to  the  charms  of 
the  leading-men  and  the  comedians,  and  therefore  rejoiced 
the  heart  of  Cantilever.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  too 
busy — she  wanted  all  the  pretty  and  luxurious  things  that  she 
had  had  since  her  marriage,  but  she  wanted  love,  too,  so  she 
had  set  a  certain  salary  as  necessary  before  she  could  leave 
Cantilever,  hence  worked  harder  at  her  dancing  and  singing, 
rehearsed  almost  daily  new  dances  and,  at  six  o'clock  each 
day  left  Cantilever  to  a  solitary  dinner  on  the  plea  that  she 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         295 

must  practise  just  before  performing  and  would  eat  in  her 
dressing-room;  hastening  instead  to  Ned. 

But,  now  that  Ned's  prospects  had  changed,  that  he  was 
exposed  to  manifold  temptations,  leaving  Cantilever  was  not 
enough.  So  she  set  her  plan  in  operation.' 

She  sent  for  her  rival  in  the  company,  a  girl  who  was, 
frankly,  for  sale — but  only  to  high  bidders,  the  pride  of 
Sydenham's  and  other  gilded  restaurants,  and  the  patron  saint 
of  taxi-drivers.  To  her,  Molly  explained  what  she  wanted 
done,  giving  her  a  thick  roll  of  bills  and  assuring  her  that, 
in  the  divorce  complaint,  the  name  of  the  co-respondent  would 
be  left  blank.  .  .  .  And,  thereafter,  Cantilever  when  he  came 
back  stage  seldom  found  himself  allowed  to  enter  his  wife's 
dressing-room,  for  another  girl  now  dressed  there;  while  the 
siren  whom  Molly  had  paid  seemed  always  hanging  about  in 
the  wings  or  behind  the  backdrop,  waiting  for  Cantilever's 
appearance  and  coaxing  him  into  her  dressing-room.  .  .  .  She 
was  a  creature  of  sinuous  curves  and  these  were  more  gen- 
erously displayed  in  her  "classic"  costume  (in  which  her  arms, 
legs  and  feet  were  quite  bare)  than  were  Molly's  in  her  tiger 
skin.  Cantilever's  was  but  the  weakest  of  flesh,  and,  though 
he  adored  Molly,  she  was  consistently  cold  to  him.  He  did  not 
love  this  glorious  hot-blooded  woman,  but  love  was  not  nec- 
essary to  gain  Molly's  ends.  The  night  when  her  rival  notified 
her  of  an  appointment  after  the  show,  Molly  did  not  come 
home  to  Cantilever.  A  few  days  later  he  was  served  with 
divorce  papers — quietly,  at  great  expense  to  Molly — for  only 
the  rich  can  escape  newspaper  notoriety  in  divorce  suits — • 
and,  just  as  quietly,  without  Molly's  stage  name  being  chroni- 
cled at  all,  a  referee  heard  the  evidence  and  gave  her  an 
absolute  divorce. 

It  was  that  same  night  she  came  to  Ned  after  the  show 
and  refused  to  leave  his  apartment.  She  could  no  longer 
stand  the  separation,  she  said — the  thoughts  of  the  other 
women  whom  he  met  daily.  She  had  cared  for  him  before 


296  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

he  became  famous,  would  care  for  him  if  he  were  a  laborer. 
Hysterically  she  told  him  of  her  fears,  how  some  fascinating 
woman  would  ensnare  and  ruin  him.  How  could  he  go  on 
with  his  work,  entangled  in  social  affairs,  married  to  a  woman 
who  would  interfere?  If  it  were  for  his  own  good,  she  would 
not  care  former  poor  little  self:  he  might  desert  her  and  still 
she  would  love  him.  But  had  she  not  brought  him  luck? 
Why,  the  stories  she  had  told  him  had  been  the  first  to  be 
famous.  .  .  .  And  if  he  married  anyone  else,  she  would  kill 
herself.  Why  should  he  not  marry  her?  Her  husband  was 
dead — she  had  had  word  long  ago,  but  she  had  not  told  him 
because  she  was  not  afraid  for  him — then.  Always  altru- 
istic. .  .  . 

There  was  really  no  possibility  of  escape  to  one  like  Ned 
who  believed  the  strong  could  protect  the  weak.  Besides,  it 
is  not  certain  he  wanted  to  escape  at  that  time,  although  later 
he  saw  women  who  might  have  suited  him  better — as  Molly 
had  known  he  would;  but,  just  then,  he  was  full  of  tenderness 
for  her.  She  occupied  the  only  sentimental  corner  of  his 
heart,  and  he  had  missed  her  greatly,  and  no  other  woman 
had  made  him  forget  the  trysts  in  the  dusk.  No,  there  was 
no  excuse  he  could  give  for  not  marrying  her ;  and  so,  putting 
off  the  evil  moment  no  longer — for  her  hysteria  -increased  in 
the  morning,  they  went  to  a  little  church  nearby  and  were 
wed. 

VI 

CHARLES  CHISHOLM  CANTILEVER  is  past  forty,  now,  and 
writes  tragic  tales  in  which  good  women,  horrified  at  grosser 
men  and  not  being  able  in  their  purity  to  understand  those 
weak  victims  of  physical  appetites,  turn  from  them  in  disgust 
and  send  to  suicide  the  men  who  still  worship  them.  He, 
himself,  has  considered  every  form  of  self-destruction,  but 
somehow  is  still  alive,  and  has  gone  back  to  the  old  Tenderloin 


MALES  WHO  WOULD  A-MATING  GO         297 

life,  writing  his  excuses  for  nights  of  puerile  debauchery  into 
his  novels  which,  the  tame  critics  say,  have  "gained  in  breadth 
and  in  deep  knowledge  of  the  soul  of  humanity;  depicting 
life,  grim,  relentless,  tragic,  with  a  master's  hand  and  with 
intimate  instinctive  wisdom."  But  they  do  not  sell  as  they 
once  did.  There  are  too  many  disciples  of  Winchester  to 
parody  them — the  "young  lions  of  journalism"  as  the  tame 
critics  contemptuously  say.  Cantilever  never  knew  Molly  had 
been  other  than  one  of  those  same  angels  of  purity,  culling 
him  out  of  her  clean  sweet  vision  only  because  he  was  not 
worthy. 

But  Winchester  knows,  and  is  not  sure  whether  to  smile 
or  be  sad.  For,  granted  her  lover,  Molly  has  been  an  excep- 
tional wife.  True,  she  never  reads  his  books  nor  makes  any 
effort  to  understand  his  philosophy,  but  she  works  hard  at 
her  work — from  which,  at  his  command,  any  semi-nudity  or 
other  sensuality  has  long  been  eliminated — and  is  as  busy  as  a 
beaver  at  other  times  in  making  their  homes  beautiful.  They 
have  two  homes :  a  New  York  studio  while  she  performs,  and 
the  moated  grange  in  the  woods,  once  Cantilever's,  but  since 
sold  to  them.  Winchester  only  writes  now,  having  surrendered 
Parnassus  to  a  trained  disciple,  and  is  scarcely  ever  at  the 
studio.  But  he  trusts  Molly  implicitly — she  says,  because  he 
does  not  care  enough,  her  one  disappointment  in  life  being 
that  she  cannot  make  him  jealous.  What  was  Cantilever's 
poison  has  been  Winchester's  nourishment. 

Perhaps  his  life  story  is  responsible  for  that  section  of  his 
philosophy  where  he  writes:  "Nature  always  preserves  the 
average:  holding  the  balance  with  the  nicest  eye.  So,  if  you 
be  inclined  to  be  jealous  of  the  rich  man,  remember  one  whom 
he  loves  may,  some  day,  make  his  life  a  tragedy:  this,  because, 
to  be  so  rich,  he  had  not  the  time  to  study  human  nature  and 
to  understand  her.  While  she,  on  her  part,  may  leave  her 
rich  husband,  her  many  luxuries  and  her  scented  idleness, 
and,  oblivious  to  the  world's  lure  of  gaiety  and  gaudery,  de- 


298 


BIRDS  OF  PREY. 


vote  herself  unselfishly  to  promoting  the  happiness  of  some 
poor  man  who  is  poor  because  he  has  given  up  his  life  to  an 
understanding  and  a  love  of  his  fellows.  So  that  any  pleasure 
the  rich  man's  wealth  may  give  him  may  be  equalized  by  the 
love  he  did  not  receive :  any  the  poor  man  may  have  lost  may 
be  made  up  by  some  woman's  unselfish  devotion.  ...  I 
think  the  analogy  may  be  carried  through  the  history  of  the 
world  and  it  makes  distinguishment  between  good  and  evil 
difficult.  What  evildoer  to  one,  may  not  be  a  benefactor  to 
another?  What  if  one  be  God's  scourge,  the  other  his  wreath 
of  bay  or  laurel?  Who  knows?  Then  who  shall  judge?" 

So  he  has  never  reproached  Molly  for  her  literary  creation, 
Willard  Smith,  the  traveling  salesman. 


Book  IV 

BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS 
AFAR  FROM  BROADWAY 


BOOK  IV 

BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS 
AFAR  FROM  BROADWAY 


THE  ETERNAL 
CYCLE 

OME  years  before  Richard 
K.  Rubblejay  had  seen  or 
heard  of  Letty  Lee,  a 
malignant  microbe — having 
just  murdered  a  man  by 
breeding  upon  a  weak 
membrane: — hovered  pen- 
sively over  a  sugar-bowl; 
wherein  lay  the  spawn  of 
a  gnat.  But,  as  one,  a  hardly  perceptible  black  mite,  leaped 
in  air,  he  seemed  a  giant  to  the  helpless  microbe.  Soon  after, 
a  house-fly,  skimming  the  sugar-bowl,  provided  the  life  of 
the  young  gnat  with  a  similar  tragic  climax;  and  itself  soon 
came  to  an  end  through  a  hungry  spider.  A  longer  period  of 
time  elapsed;  then  one  morning,  while  the  windows  ivere 
open,  a  sudden  wintry  gust  precipitated  the  spider  into  the. 
garden,  where  a  hen  clucked  out  of  bounds.  A  week  after, 
when  the  spider  was  a  forgotten  memory,  a  fox  stole  the  hen — 

301 


302  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

the  same  fox  whose  brush  now  hangs  in  what  was  formerly 
Mr.  Casimir  Smith's  country  home,  "Wildwood" ;  afterwards 
the  property  of  Richard  K.  Rubblejay.  It  was  a  year  after 
the  hen's  abduction  that  Smith  was  in  at  Reynard's  death. 
Two  more  years  and  Rubblejay  was  in  at  Smith's;  said 
Smith  having  extended  his  hunting  to  Wall  Street  where  he 
was  as  the  fox  had  been  to  his  own  beagles. 

Six  months  later,  Mr.  Rubblejay  went  into  an  obscure 
restaurant  just  off  Broadway  and  met  Letty  Lee.  You  may 
urge  that  the  extended  history  of  any  other  victim  of  this 
cycle  would  prove  as  profitable.  But  we  propose  to  be  arbi- 
trary and  to  tell  in  detail  only  this  one.  For  this  reason  and 
no  other,  Mr.  Rubblejay  merits  a  more  extended  description 
than  his  predecessors:  each,  like  himself,  an  erstwhile  con- 
queror and  whilom  victim; — Messrs.  Microbe,  Gnat,  Fly, 
Spider,  Hen,  Fox,  and  Casimir  Smith. 


WE  have  acquaintance  with  a  critic,  who  mentally  (if  one 
may  so  misapply  that  abused  adverb)  stands  upon  his  head 
whenever  he  perceives  that  better  men  find  their  feet  adequate ; 
this  being  his  conception  of  cleverness.  This  person  once  found 
cause  for  loud  lamentation  because  dramatists  and  novelists 
have  pictured  money-mad  millionaires  as  mentally  moribund. 
"Away  with  these  spineless  and  untrue  miscreations  and  mis- 
creants," he  writes.  "Oh,  for  an  author  who  will  draw  for 
us  the  true  character  of  one  of  those  strong  silent  men  who 
rule  our  country  and  bend  the  Constitution  to  their  will." 

Here  is  that  author;  and  here  is  that  character; — Mr. 
Richard  K.  Rubblejay.  He  is  not  a  miscreant  because  he 
has  no  imagination;  but,  also,  he  is  not  strong; — any  more 
than  Sir  Fly  or  Sir  Spider ;  strong  men  do  not  win  from  the 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  803 

weak ;  they  are  ashamed.  He  is  silent,  because  he  has  nothing 
much  to  say:  those  portions  of  his  cerebrum  and  cerebellum 
not  utilized  for  spinning  such  webs  as  catch  dollars,  having 
withered,  shrunk,  and  almost  disappeared.  When  he  drinks, 
his  thoughts  take  on  the  color  of  his  flushed  face;  and  he 
finds  exquisite  humor  in  smoke-room  stories.  In  his  youth 
he  stumbled,  by  luck,  onto  vast  quantities  of  a  certain  thing 
dug  from  the  ground;  through  certain  finely  engraved  docu- 
ments which  became  his,  as  a  broker,  because  certain  margins 
had  not  been  protected.  Worthless,  then,  the  enterprise  of 
other  stock-holders  led  Mr.  Rubble  jay  to  suspect  the  stock 
suffered  only  because  of  inertia.  Therefore,  he  loaned  those 
enterprising  ones — who  were  unaware  that  stock  such  as 
theirs  was  also  his — certain  moneys  to  sink  on  their  own 
private  accounts;  and,  when  the  yield  was  certain,  he  "called" 
the  loans.  The  loaned  money  having  gone  into  machinery, 
and  the  results  being  yet  too  intangible  to  command  cash; 
the  vast  quantities  passed  into  the  sole  possession  of  Richard 
Rubble  jay. 

Thus,  you  will  see  what  is  meant  when  he  is  before  de- 
scribed as  not  a  strong  man ;  strong  men  having  great  hearts. 
With  a  fortune  obtained  from  the  vast  quantities,  Mr.  Rubble- 
jay  was  necessary  to  the  circle  of  intrigue  that  decides,  in 
advance,  whether  listed  stocks  shall  rise  or  fall.  Automatically, 
his  money  bred  money.  He  bought  such  luxuries  as  can  be 
purchased  by  sheer  expenditure;  but  even  such  a  one  as  an 
ocean-going  yacht  yielded  him  little  except  expense  accounts. 
He  had  not  enough  time  to  enjoy  one  motor  car  or  one  house, 
let  alone  six  of  one  and  a  half-a-dozen  of  the  other;  his 
business  needed  all  the  concentration  of  one  so  limited.  How- 
ever :  his  brain  was  less  shrunken  than  those  of  his  colleagues ; 
for,  after  twenty  years  of  it,  he  managed  to  escape;  "to 
enjoy  life."  Not  society;  "damn  society"; — he  did  not  want 
another  struggle;  another  steady  eye  on  the  safety-valve; — 


304  BIHD3  OF  PREY 

"The  world,"  He  said  grandly,  having  read  "Monte  Cristo," 
"for  mine."  He  had  visions  of  at  least  one  portion  of 
Haroun-al-Raschid's  enjoyment: — it  took  the  form  of  a  harem. 
Ah !  he  was  a  wicked  boy ! 

We  glimpse  him,  only  dimly,  on  his  world-tour;  at  each 
stage  hastening;  as  Yokohama  faded  away,  almost  paralyzed 
by  the  thought  that  six  thousand  miles  separated  him  from 
the  only  people  who  really  respect  money;  instead  of  regard- 
ing one  who  possessed  too  much  of  it  as  either  to  be  ridiculed 
or  defrauded; — six  thousand  miles  fraught  with  possible 
yacht-wrecking  storms.  He  fades.  We  do  not  find  him  suffi- 
ciently interesting  to  view  again  until  he  pushes  open  the  door 
of  that  obscure  restaurant  just  off  Broadway. 


II 

THERE  is  no  explaining  such  a  night  as  the  one  that  fol- 
lowed. Its  like  cannot  be  arranged,  anticipated,  or  reproduced 
at.  will.  Occasionally,  they  happen;  that  is  all.  Had  Mr. 
Rubble  jay  entered  Santayana's  on  any  average  night,  he  would 
have  seen  some  tired-looking  girls  eating  club  sandwiches  and 
drinking  ale  in  mugs ;  some  young  men,  careless  of  the  girls' 
presence,  discussing  their  different  conceptions  of  "Art" ;  some 
others  reading  books  propped  up  against  decanters ;  yet  again 
those  who  read  for  the  edification  of  all  professional  scandal 
from  that  newspaper  issued  at  midnight — for  theatrical  and 
racing  folk  who  like  to  know  the  worst  before  they  retire. 

None  other  than  these  commonplace  things  would  Mr. 
Rubble  jay  have  found;  but,  this  night,  Paul  Einstein,  a  sad- 
eyed  frequenter,  was  glad-eyed.  He  had  his  first  reason 
for  believing  that  horses  had  become  sensible  to  the  logic 
of  his  faultless  "system";  although,  truth  to  tell,  the  ten 
dollars  he  had  placed  upon  a  "6o-to-i  shot"  had  been  per- 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  305 

functory.  "That's  the  finish,"  he  had  said.  Having  a  sad 
subconscious  knowledge  that  he  had  not  spoken  truth: — that 
the  book-makers  would  regain  the  majority  of  his  big  "win"; 
— he  determined,  it  should  serve  at  least  to  lay  a  foundation 
of  future  credit:  and  proceeded  to  put  under  obligation  every 
regular  patron  of  his  favorite  tavern.  So,  when  Mr.  Rubble- 
jay  entered,  in  pursuit  of  a  brilliantly  beautiful  young  woman, 
he  saw  her,  and  many  others,  grouped  about  one  table  that 
but  recently  had  been  four;  what  passes  for  a  silver  bucket 
standing  with  its  Broadway  concomitant  of  green  bottle-neck 
peeping  out  of  ice,  beside  each  chair. 

"And,  say,  you  two" — Mr.  Einstein  addressed  on  their 
entrance  two  young  men  whom  often  he  had  heard  define  Art 
to  their  own  complete  satisfaction.  "Coupla  chairs,  Billy. 
My  treat,  boys,  I  win  $600  to-day." 

They  required  no  urging.  They  would  have  sat  less  with 
art  and  more  with  girls  had  they  been  able  to  pay  for  other 
food  than  their  own  and  the  girls  understood  this  and 
made  them  welcome:  their  bankruptcy  made  them  brothers. 
Brothers,  too,  the  men  of  the  propped-up  books;  who  wrote 
many  more  magazine-stories  than  they  published,  an  occa- 
sional vaudeville  playlet,  or,  perhaps,  like  Burton  Jarvis,  a 
play  that  had  failed  or  that  was  bringing  in  only  enough  to 
keep  one  alive  until  another  should  see  the  boards.  Likewise 
of  the  fraternity  were  the  readers  of  nightly  scandal,  the 
small-part  actors  and  the  boys  who  bet  on  races,  existing, 
meanwhile,  by  the  sale  of  "tips"  to  people  who  knew  almost 
as  little  of  logic  as  the  horses.  The  girls,  themselves,  were 
in  the  chorus  of  the  "big  show"  at  the  Broadway  corner;  or 
they  were  playing  parts  at  the  "highbrow"  theater  just  over 
the  way;  positions  paying  well  in  the  first  case,  badly  in  the 
second :  the  same  amount  in  each.  All  patronized  Santayana's 
exclusively  because  club  sandwiches  at  fifteen  cents,  and 
chicken  dinners  at  forty,  are  not  to  be  had  everywhere.  To- 


306  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

night,  however,  expense  was  no  object,  and  Mr.  Einstein's 
"table"  gorged  itself  on  all  the  other  tables,  until,  stranger 
or  no  stranger,  it  really  would  not  do  for  one  to  sit  alone  like 
a  wrecked  sailor  on  a  raft  or  %  lost  soul  outside  St.  Peter's 
gates;  so  uprose  Einstein  and  bowed  to  Rubblejay.  "I  don't 
know  you,  Mister.  But  you  can't  give  any  solitaire  sessions 
here  to-night.  You're  spoiling  my  party.  Come  on  over  here 
—Billy:— a  chair  for  His  Nobs." 

Despite  the  offensively  familiar  appearance  of  this  ad- 
dress, it  was  music  to  Mr.  Rubblejay ;  who  was  tired  of  bended 
backs  and  concealed  curses,  showy  subservience  and  silent 
scorn.  Unless  he  was  spending  freely,  he  had  found  that 
servants  grew  careless  and  guests  yawned.  The  high  rank 
which  he  arrogated  himself  through  possession  of  so  much 
of  the  world's  standard  of  quality,  made  him  too  completely 
the  egotist  to  lay  this  to  his  lack  of  genial  qualities,  his  com- 
plete ignorance  of  the  art  of  any  entertainment  unallied  with 
disbursal.  As  for  sympathetic  listening: — when  he  was  not 
desirous  of  quoting  those  statistics  which  were  his  biography; 
he  found  that  he  had  mislaid  any  mental  yard-stick  by  which 
to  measure  achievements  or  ambitions  not  concerned  with  the 
pursuit  of  money.  Therefore,  when  not  tipping  servants,  he 
was  paying  for  friends.  When  doing  neither,  he  was  avoided ; 
nay,  shunned;  except  by  a  third  class, — card-sharps,  adven- 
turers in  general;  who  took  by  some  form  of  stealth  what  he 
had  not  meant  to  give. 

He  saw  none  of  these  at  the  table  before  him ;  only  young 
girls  flushed  and  prattling  to  young  men  eager  of  admiration 
and  speech.  As  for  Mr.  Einstein,  after  urging  Billy  to  put 
"IT"  on  the  table  if  he  had  not  another  bucket,  he  turned 
immediately  from  Rubblejay  to  continue  his  attempt  at  the 
fascination  of  Miss  Letty  Lee.  The  young  man  who  sat 
opposite  was  not  concerned;  which  annoyed  Letty.  She  w?? 
that  young  man's  personal  property  and  it  behooved  him  to 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  307 

show  jealousy.  That  he  did  not,  was  one  strong  reason  why 
his  hold  upon  her  was  so  absolute.  He  was  that  Burton 
Jarvis  who  had  written  an  unsuccessful  play;  which,  pub- 
lished in  England,  had  won  the  praise  of  Shavians  and 
Fabians; — much  the  same  thing.  Jarvis  was  far  more  in- 
terested in  a  conversation  about  the  great  Irish  genius  than 
he  was  in  Letty's  admirers.  Moreover,  the  young  reporter, — 
one  of  those  who  talked  about  art, — had  seen  the  Jarvis  play 
and  was  voicing  a  belief  that  he  should  call  Jarvis  Maitre. 
"Can  all  that  stuff,"  said  the  young  playwright,  laughing. 
Academic  in  his  prose,  with  a  degree  from  the  most  catholic 
of  American  universities,  he  could  afford  in  conversation  to 
embrace  the  colloquial.  Moreover,  he  was  applying  to  that 
vernacular  known  along  Broadway  as  "wise-cracking  stuff" 
the  rhythmic  method  of  John  Synge.  If  Synge  could  make 
music  of  Irish  peasant's  speech ;  Jarvis  had  far-better  material 
in  picturesque  Tenderloinese,  admixture  of  thieves'  patter  and 
the  word  pictures  of  limited  vocabularies.  However,  he  did 
not  permit  Letty  so  to  speak  and  he  frowned  when  he  heard 
her  say  to  Einstein  that  something  was  a  "quince,  a  sour 
one."  Immediately,  she  remembered:  "an  absolute  failure, 
I  thwould  thay,"  she  amended  hurriedly.  She  lisped  slightly 
when  her  speech  was  hastened.  She  was  the  brilliantly  beau- 
tiful young  woman  Mr.  Rubble  jay  had  followed ;  and  she  had 
refused  more  invitations  to  rich  men's  suppers  than  all  the 
other  company  girls  had  a  chance  to  accept.  Mr.  Rubblejay 
watched  her  and  something  caused  by  neither  excessive  food 
nor  drink  thumped  heavily  within  him.  He  watched  Letty 
in  a  sort  of  dull  happy  daze  as  might  a  dog  on  finding  a  kind 
master.  There  took  hold  of  him  the  same  desperation  to 
distinguish  himself  that  had  compelled  him,  as  a  boy  in  full 
sight  of  a  pig-tailed  miss  whose  affection  he  craved,  to  lower 
himself  into  a  very  deep  well.  For — since  these  people  did 
not  know  he  was  Rubblejay,  therefore  could  not  be  conniv- 


308  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

ing ; — the  brakes  of  mature  suspicion  and  mistrust  were  thrown 
off,  and  the  heart  of  the  Rubble  jay  at  that  table,  while  encased 
in  the  thin  dyspeptic  torso  of  forty-five  and  the  seventy-five 
dollar  fluted  and  frilled  dress-shirt  of  a  millionaire,  was  again 
the  heart  of  an  adolescent  boy.  It  proved  this  by  playing  him 
a  boy's  trick. 

"Waiter,"  it  dictated  to  his  tongue,  "do  what  the  gentleman 
says,  but,  hand  the  check  to  me  this  time."  .  .  . 

"You're  a  good-fellow,"  said  Mr.  Einstein.  "Mitt  me,  old 
kid."  He  held  out  "the  mitt"  and  shook  Rubble  jay's  heartily. 
"But  you're  with  me  to-night — " 

Rubble  jay  argued  the  point  with  all  the  solemnity  of  a 
college  child  just  elected  to  a  "frat."  He  was  conscious  of 
the  brilliantly  beautiful  one's  gaze.  He  had  attracted  her 
attention.  He  was  somebody,  now.  A  man;  not  just  a 
fellow  at  the  table.  Nobody  else  had  thought  so  brilliantly 
and  achieved  so  efficiently.  For  Einstein,  realizing  that  the 
obligations  now  lay  heavy  upon  all,  yielded  the  point  to  "Papa." 
Rubblejay  was  not  sure  he  liked  that  "Papa";  so  he  said: 
"Paul:  call  me  Dick."  The  speech  was  intended  to  be  light 
and  airy;  and  was  fully  as  debonair  and  natural  as  a  septua- 
genarian learning  lawn-tennis  or  polo;  but  he  managed  to 
deliver  it  and  that  was  something;  for  it  encouraged  him  to 
mental  aviation. 

"You  call  me  'Dick,'  too"  said  he  to  Letty  Lee.  It  was 
the  sort  of  thing  he  might  have  said  when  he  and  the  girls 
of  his  dancing-school  class,  carrying  their  pumps  in  little  green 
bags,  held  hands  in  secret  corners.  Letty  laughed.  "All  right, 
Dick"  she  said.  "Here's  to  Dick,  boys  and  gifls." 

But  she  sipped  her  champagne,  only;  for  Jarvis  let  casual 
eyes  rest  on  her  glass;  and  she  knew  that  if  she  exceeded  his 
instructions,  he  would  rise  and  start  home,  her  following, 
to  him,  apparently  a  matter  of  no  moment.  Therefore,  she 
would  have  deserted  a  Delmonico  banquet  to  beat  him  to  the 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  309 

sidewalk.  "Dick"  was  looking  at  her,  too;  not  casually.  She 
turned  as  soon  as  Jarvis  looked  elsewhere. 

"Good  Lord,"  she  thought,  with  the  unerring  knowledge 
of  alert  women ;  "that  funny  old  Dick  is  stuck  on  me."  Such 
is  the  savagery  of  youth  that  forty-five  seems  very  ancient 
indeed ;  too  ancient  to  possess  any  other  than  comic  emotions. 
She  had  three:  amusement  that  an  ancient  should  love;  the 
satisfaction  which  comes  when  women  are  reminded  of  their 
power;  and,  third,  the  fear  that  the  gentleman  might  show 
his  feelings  too  plainly  and  earn  her  the  contempt  of  Jarvis 
for  encouraging  such  "an  old  guy.  But  that's  a  woman!" 
— he  would  continue :  "no  matter  who  or  what:  so  long  as  it's 
admiration." 

To  which,  in  the  earlier  stages  of  acquaintance,  she  would 
reply:  "But  I'm  not  like  other  girls";  until  he  pointed  out  to 
her  that  the  remark  just  made  was  absolute  proof  that  she 
was.  "You  women  all  kid  yourself  you're  different;  whereas, 
if  horses  ran  to  form  like  women,  I'd  be  a  millionaire."  This 
was  no  pose  with  the  young  man.  After  boyhood  had 
bumped  out  idealism  of  the  feminine,  his  handling  of  women 
had  been  instinctive.  Indeed,  it  is  very  doubtful,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  if  he  cared  enough  about  them  to  perfect  himself 
in  what,  if  studied,  is  as  baffling  as  roulette. 


Ill 

MR.  RUBBLEJAY  thought  joyously:  "This  is  Bohemia. 
Here  is  the  real  thing."  It  was,  but  Mr.  Rubble  jay  was  not 
of  it.  He  was  as  one  who  witnesses  in  a  moving-picture  reel 
all  the  accidentally  caught  intimacies  of  another  person's 
home.  "They  like  me  for  myself,"  thought  Mr.  Rubble  jay. 
They  neither  liked  nor  disliked  him.  They  were  enjoying 
themselves  and  he  was  not  interfering;  so  they  hardly  knew  he 


310  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

was  there.  Had  he  been  content  with  a  position  so  incon- 
spicuous,— the  only  one  to  which  he  was  entitled  by  a  men- 
tality actually  much  below  the  average  of  these  young  people 
— and  preserved  his  incognito,  he  might  have  returned  to 
frequent  Santayana's,  and  found,  in  exchange  for  a  discreetly 
bought  meal  or  two,  or  an  occasional  round  of  drinks,  a 
certain  charming  camaraderie.  Bohemia  tolerates  such  harm- 
less ones  and  borrows  their  money;  giving  in  return  friend- 
ship and  sprightly  conversation.  But  such  honorary  members 
must  be  content  to  play  audience,  to  listen,  approve,  and  never 
intrude  the  standards  of  the  Philistines.  So  conducting  them- 
selves, they  will  be  looked  upon  as  human  and  no  true  vagabond 
would  do  to  them  a  wrong  any  more  than  to  a  brother  artist. 
The  loans  are  loans. 

But  few  complete  egotists  with  Fortunatus  purses  are 
content  with  part  so  humble.  So  Rubblejay  had  another  spasm 
of  Haroun-al-Raschid-ism.  These  people  liked  him  for 
"himself";  they  would  be  rewarded  by  finding  that  the  erst- 
while silent  stranger  was  the  great  and  good  Rubblejay  the 
1st ;  who  would  not  scorn  them ;  nay,  he  would  be  their  august 
patron.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  if  the  world  rewarded 
his  small  efforts  with  a  thousand  times  as  much  money  as 
those  of  these  brilliant  young  people,  then  either  money  must 
be  a  faulty  standard  or  the  system  insane. 

It  was  a  genuine  evening;  a  warm  glowing  disk  against 
his  dull  gray  unimaginative  life.  Never  were  funnier  stories 
told;  never  prettier  girls  to  dance  with;  never  dizzier  rag- 
time "beaten  out  of  the  box"  than  that  of  young  Louis 
Schanze;  who  was  yet  to  introduce  into  syncopation  "Lohen- 
grin" and  the  "Valkyries  Ride"  and  win  international  fame. 
Louie  was  only  a  piano-player  at  rehearsals  those  days  with  an 
occasional  interpolated  song  when  "hit"  numbers  "fell  down." 
Oscar  English,  now  whirling  to  Louie's  music,  was  a  "small- 
part"  boy;  a  great  dancer  having  yet  to  break  his  leg  and 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  311 

give  this  young  understudy  a  first-night  in  New  York  intro- 
ducing the  newest  Tango  and  winning  lasting  fame.  Oscar's 
partner,  on  the  night  in  Santayana's,  was  Letty  Lee;  they 
improvised  some  sort  of  Apache  as  they  went  along;  until 
the  rest  ceased  dancing  to  watch  them. 

And  there  was  Charlie  Doty,  who  was  to  be  a  comedian 
of  sorts  in  London ;  Milly  Vane,  the  "original"  Ghostly  Pierrot 
in  1908;  Hugh  McVeigh  whose  funny  trifling  and  successful 
farces  were  to  make  him  detested  by  these  very  comrades  for 
abandoning  less  profitable  but  more  enduring  dramaturgy — • 
many  more,  some  still  unknown,  but  none  lacking  the  qualities 
that  would  some  day  make  for  either  fame  or  notoriety.  And 
Burton  Jarvis,  who  was  to  be  called  "the  American  Shavian." 

It  is  small  wonder  that  Richard  K.  Rubble  jay  had  his  eyes 
opened  to  the  possibilities  of  enjoying  life.  There  were 
gathered  in  Santayana's  such  a  crowd  as  fills  the  dreams  of 
the  lonely  amateur  in  letters  or  stage-struck  aspirant.  Like 
the  scent  of  the  roses,  the  memory  of  such  a  night  pervades 
many  days  that  follow;  but  at  dawn  the  jar  is  shattered,  the 
bottle  broken.  Chance  ...  is  the  potter,  the  glass-blower. 

Most  of  the  party  could  afford  to  be  poor  for  their  work 
was  their  pleasure.  They  welcomed  such  evenings  when  they 
came  naturally;  then  forgot  all  about  them.  It  was  not  so 
with  Rubblejay.  He  had  hated  his  work  and  quitted  it.  He 
now  lived  for  pleasure.  And  as  this  was  the  ideal  pleasure, 
he  must  have  much  more  of  it  by  virtue  of  his  divine  right 
as  Rubblejay  ist,  al  Raschid  of  Broadway.  He  announced 
this  fact  by  arising  in  his  seat  and  commanding  the  company 
to  sup  with  him  in  a  private  room  at  a  smart  supper  place, 
a  day  or  so  following. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "taxicabs  and  we'll  all  go  to  De- 
marra's." 

Had  he  been  sensitive,  he  would  have  realized  that  his 
speech  was  like  a  gusty  squall  bursting  upon  a  garden  sweet 


312  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

with  rue  and  roses;  dissipating  that  scent,  leaving  only  arid 
air.  Demarra's!  They  knew  it:  a  silly  bestial  place,  with 
entrances  pretentiously  guarded  that  ignorant  sight-seekers 
might  believe  its  hidden  delights  to  be  for  the  elect.  Under 
the  dim  lanterns  of  its  artificial  pergola,  sat  women  to  delight 
amateur  Aubrey  Beardsleys;  dead  whitish  yellow  of  skin. 
Egyptian  of  eyes ;  made  up  in  imitation  of  the  pornographic 
Paris  posters;  hired  dancers  who  pretended  impromptus;  and, 
for  patrons,  young  collegians  and  respectable  fools  who 
imagined  that  they  were  seeing  life. 

"And,  afterwards,  Chinatown?"  asked  Jarvis,  coldly  con- 
temptuous. 

"Sure,"  said  Rubble] ay,  "to  finish  off  a  big  evening." 

His  auditors  divided  into  two  classes,  immediately;  the 
first  despising  him  for  ignorance;  the  second,  studying  him 
for  future  profit.  An  almost  imperceptible  motion  of  Jarvis's 
eyelids  told  Letty  she  could  not  go.  Her  "good-bye"  reduced 
Rubblejay's  satisfaction  by  three-quarters. 

He  urged  and  he  pleaded.  Burton  Jarvis  got  his  hat  and 
coat,  bade  all  a  cheery  "good-night"  and  sauntered  forth 
leisurely,  whistling,  care-free.  Letty  caught  him  half-way 
down  the  block.  She  was  bursting  with  desire  to  tell  Jarvis 
"that  funny  old  Dick"  was  "dead  in  love"  with  her;  but  he 
offered  her  no  encouragement.  So  Rubblejay  was  not  men- 
tioned until  the  next  morning. 


IV 

IT  is  impossible  for  outsiders,  who  live  carefully  conven- 
tional lives,  to  understand  the  life  that  is  lived  by  the  younger 
people  of  Broadway;  and,  sometimes,  by  the  older  ones,  too. 
Therefore,  having  identically  opposite  ethics,  it  is  ruinous  for 
outsiders  to  attempt  to  fraternize  with  them.  The  righteous 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  313 

bourgeiousie  speak  of  Paris  as  that  horrible  place  where 
students,  artists,  and  boulevardiers  have  conspired  to  defeat 
the  marriage  vows.  If  as  free  speech  were  permitted  Ameri- 
can literature  as  French,  these  good  folks  would  discover 
that,  where  people  of  the  stage  and  the  arts  hold  forth,  more 
self-respect  is  lost  through  marriage  than  through  its  lack. 
Such  people  generally  begin  lives  with  marriage,  being  en- 
thusiastic ;  divorce  follows  promptly ;  and,  thereafter,  they  live 
in  a  continual  state  of  Mercdithian  experiments;  beginning 
generally,  when  young,  unknown,  and  lonely  and,  finding  such 
are  not  frowned  down  in  their  world,  continue.  But,  in 
them,  there  is  no  more  of  the  licentious,  the  libidinous,  or 
the  lecherous,  than  in  the  marriages  of  young  people  in  more 
conventional  surroundings.  And  they  endure  as  long;  the 
pact  is  seldom  broken;  although,  often,  through  enforced  ab- 
sences "on  the  road,"  or  abroad,  it  stretches  slowly  until, 
tenous,  its  snap  is  hardly  perceptible.  Quite  as  often,  should 
one  or  both  parties  become  well  known,  it  is  found  incon- 
venient and  the  couple  marry.  Some  day  someone  will  write 
the  "La  Boheme"  of  Broadway,  and  Murger's  poets  and 
grisettes  will  become  an  unhallowed  memory. 

For  all  practical  purposes,  therefore,  let  us  consider  that 
Letty  was  Mrs.  Jarvis  when,  next  morning,  she  handed  a  cup 
of  coffee  to  the  young  playwright.  At  the  same  moment,  the 
telephone  buzzed  rebelliously,  an  orange-stick  preventing  its 
ringing.  She  put  down  the  coffee  and  took  down  the  receiver. 
It  was  Rubblejay  who  spoke  from  afar. 

He  had  obtained  her  address  from  one  of  the  other  girls; 
he  was  sending  her  some  roses ;  and  would  she  lunch  with 
him.  Who  was  it?  Why,  Mr.  Rubblejay:  Richard  K. ; 
"Dick"; — didn't  she  remember? 

To  Jarvis,  drinking  his  coffee,  she  repeated  the  invitation, 
hand  over  the  telephone.  Jarvis  smiled  and  lighted  a 
cigarette.  "Say,  'yes,'  "  he  advised.  Letty  gazed  at  him  in 


314  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

•      •  | 

mournful  dissatisfaction.  Was  this  love? — permitting  her  to 
lunch  with  another  man?  Jarvis  raised  his  eyebrows  and 
wanted  to  know  why  not?  "I  love  you,  Letty;  and  love  is 
trust,"  said  he,  sipping.  "I've  got  work  to  do  and  you've  got 
an  idle  day  ahead.  Why  not  lunch  expensively  and  ride 
through  the  Park  in  a  motor?" 

Letty  shot  him  a  scornful  glance.  "I  can't  go,  Mr.  Rubble- 
jay,"  she  said  imperatively.  Jarvis  jumped  and  spilt  his 
coffee.  "Rubblejay,"  he  gasped.  He  put  a  finger  lip\vard. 
"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Letty  into  the  telephone. 

"Rubblejay,"  said  Jarvis  impressively;  "Rubblejay — Rich- 
ard K.f" 

"Richard  K.  Rubblejay,"  she  repeated  parrot-like. 

"Such  a  stupid  ass  to  be  worth  a  hundred  million,"  won- 
dered Jarvis.  "It  only  shows  you,  Puss,  what  I've  always 
said  about  money.  .  .  .  See  here:  that  changes  things.  He's 
wild  about  you :  I  saw  by  his  face — " 

"Oh!  he's  stuck  on  me,  all  right,  all  right,  the  old  jay," 
said  "Puss";  then  into  the  telephone:  "Yes,  yes,  just  a  min- 
ute, Mr.  Rubblejay." 

"Tell  him  all  right  then,"  said  Jarvis  in  a  tone  that  per- 
mitted of  no  contradiction.  She  obeyed.  "He  says  he'll  call 
at  12:30  with  his  car.  ...  A  whole  lot  you  care  about  me." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Puss,"  he  replied.  "I'm  going  with 
you."  While  he  smoked,  he  outlined  a  campaign  against 
Rubblejay,  grinning  mischievously.  Even  if  there  had  been 
no  chance  for  gain,  Jarvis  would  have  welcomed  a  passage- 
at-arms  with  a  Wall  Street  conqueror;  if  only  to  prove  his 
contention  that  their  money-making  ability  was  not  due  so 
much  to  great  bfains  as  to  little;  "just  like  popular  song- 
writers and  best-selling  authors,"  he  said. 

So,  when  Rubblejay  was  shown  into  the  little  apartment 
off  Gramercy  Park,  he  found  Mr.  Jarvis  lounging  there  and 
Miss  Lee  looking  distressed.  "I  already  had  an  engagement 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  315 

with  Mr.  Jarvis,"  she  said,  unhappily.  "Can't  we  take  him 
along  Mr.  Rubble  jay?" 

He  said  he  would  be  delighted,  but  he  did  not  look  it.  Dur- 
ing the  luncheon,  at  an  appropriate  moment,  Jarvis  commented 
upon  the  splendor  of  a  ruby-ring  that  woman  nearby  was 
wearing.  Letty,  as  an  actress  on  a  cue,  put  forward  little 
bare  hands  devoid  of  ornamentation.  "I  wonder  how  it  would 
look  on  me,"  she  mused :  "I  never  had  a  ring."  Mr.  Rubble- 
jay  coughed,  choked,  grew  red  in  the  face;  Jarvis  stared 
away.  "If  you'd  permit  me,"  said  Rubblejay  in  a  low  tone. 
Letty  looked  shocked.  "Oh,  Mr.  Rubblejay"— "Dick,"  he 
amended.  "But  I  can't — I  really  can't — call  such  a  great  man 
'Dick/  "  she  murmured  ingenuously.  "It  was  different  last 
night  when  I  thought  you  were  just  one  of  the  boys." 

"That's  all  I  want  to  be,"  said  the  great  man,  with  ponder- 
ous levity,  "just  one  of  the  boys." 

"But— about  the  ring— I  just  couldn't  think  of  it,"  Letty 
said.  "No,  indeed ;  oh,  no !" 

Somehow,  between  them,  however,  she  and  Jarvis  man- 
aged to  confine  the  conversation  to  jewels;  so  that  Rubblejay 
had  small  chance  to  forget; — not  that  he  wished  so  to  do. 
They  drove  to  Griffony's,  afterwards,  and  thinking  himself 
very  arch  and  sly,  Rubblejay  wished  Letty  to  pick  out  a  ring 
to  send  as  a  present  to  a  certain  young  lady.  "Oh — who  is 
she?"  asked  Letty  ingenuously.  She  could  say  such  things, 
outrageous  to  common-sense,  with  that  lisp  of  hers.  Jarvis, 
who  knew  stones,  silently  guided  her  eyes  to  the  most  ex- 
pensive ruby  in  the  showcase ;  but,  as  Rubblejay  had  it  charged, 
he  was  not  to  realize  what  her  ingenuousness  had  cost  him 
until  Griffony's  semi-annual  statement. 

Jarvis  then  allowed  his  rival  to  see  her  home.  He  said 
"good-bye"  sulkily;  did  not  offer  to  take  Rubblejay's  hand; 
both  these  rudenesses  so  very  apparent  that  they  delighted 
the  older  man. 


316  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

"That  Burt!!"  said  Letty  in  a  vexed  tone  as  they  drove 
southwards.  "You  know — just  because  I'm  engaged  to  marry 
him,  he  thinks  I  ought  never  look  at  another  man.  And 
what  makes  it  twice  as  hard : — if  he  gets  really  angry  with  me, 
he  won't  give  me  the  part  in  his  new  play  he  promised.  And, 
oh !  if  you  could  realize  what  a  chance  to  get  out  of  the  chorus 
means  to  a  girl  like  me ! !" 

Thus  Rubble  jay  was  led  to  believe  that  her  engagement  to 
Mr.  Jarvis  was  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  he  could  assist 
her  to  higher  things  in  the  profession.  Letty  parroted  some 
of  Jarvis's  pet  remarks  about  art  in  acting;  proving  to  her 
admirer  that  she  was  an  intellectual  little  person; — with  a 
soul.  None  of  your  daughters  of  joy,  but  a  serious  young 
woman  who  had  strong  desires  to  do  worthy  things  in  worthy 
ways.  She  twanged  this  string  so  loudly  that  Rubblejay  lost 
the  courage  that  had  prompted  his  purchase  and  feared  the 
gift  of  the  ring  would  be  misunderstood ;  so  that  he  was  on  the 
ultimate  verge  of  departure,  the  ring  still  upon  him,  before 
she  realized  she  had  better  be  ingenuous  again. 

"Do  tell  me  who's  it  for :  please  ?" 

Next  to  a  caress,  which  he  did  not  dare,  a  gift  was  the 
next  best  thing  to  relieve  the  overwhelming  tenderness  her 
fresh  young  face  inspired.  Without  a  word,  he  thrust  into 
her  little  hands  the  soft  case  of  untanned  leather  and,  incon- 
tinently, fled,  lest  she  should  hurl  it  back.  Instead,  she  sat 
down,  breathing  hard,  and,  the  ring  on  her  finger,  kissed  it  a 
dozen  times. 

"Oh!  you  beautiful  thing,  you,"  she  said  passionately; 
and,  presently,  sobering,  her  eyes  held  deep  calculation: 
"Thousands  of  dollars — as  easy  as  that.  Gee!" 


Jarvis,  who  knew  stones,  silently  guided  her  eyes  to  the  most 
expensive  ruby  in  the  showcase. 


\ 

BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  317 


BETWEEN  the  gnat's  decision  and  the  microbe's  death  there 
elapsed  not  even  a  second ;  but  the  fly  manoeuvred  a  minute ; 
the  spider  spun  half-an-hour;  the  clucking  hen  enjoyed  a 
cross-country  chase,  even  longer,  while  Reynard  reconnoitered 
two  whole  nights  for  the  hen:  Him,  Casimir  Smith  lost  twice 
on  false  scents ;  so  that  his  capture  involved  the  better  part 
of  two  hunting  weeks;  while  Casimir  himself  was  allowed  the 
freedom  of  Wall  Street  nearly  a  month  before  Rubblejay  got 
him. 

Just  as  the  details  of  these  matters  are  dim,  so  are  some 
of  those  in  the  case  of  the  cycle's  later  swing.  We  observe 
Rubblejay  smiling  fatuously  as  he  leaves  the  Gramercy  Park 
apartment  after  the  incident  of  his  first  gift.  He  fades  again, 
until  like  the  Cheshire  cat  only  his  grin  remains.  When  we 
have  new  light,  it  is  upon  an  apartment  in  certain  "man- 
sions," Thames  Embankment,  City  o'  London ;  and  no  Rubble- 
jay is  there;  only  Burton  Jarvis,  the  only  American  dramatist 
who  has  been  performed  at  the  new  Repertory  Theater.  He 
is  asleep ;  although  the  knocking  at  his  door  finally  proves  too 
much  even  for  a  man  who  has  survived  the  dress-rehearsal 
and  premiere  of  his  own  costume-play. 

It  is  the  lift-man.  "Sorry  to  disturb  you  at  such  a  silly 
'our,  sir;  but  this  lady  insisted  you  would  not  mind."  This 
was  what  he  had  intended  to  say,  but  he  had  no  time;  for 
Letty  had  been  in  Burton's  arms  since  the  "Sorry."  Jarvis 
gave  him  half-a-crown  and  bade  him  wake  one  who  will  bring 
coffee. 

"I  couldn't  stand  it,  Burt";  said  Letty  penitently,  when 
the  door  closed.  "It  was  too  awful ;  you  away  and  that  awful 
person  hounding  me  night  and  day.  I  even  got  to  hate  his 
presents;  although  now  I'm  rid  of  him  I  don't  hate  them  so 
much.  In  fact,  I  love  them." 


318  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

She  had  opened  her  jewel-box  and  poured  its  contents  on 
the  bed-covers  which  Jarvis  had  resumed.  The  sight  ban- 
ished all  remaining  sleepiness.  There  was  a  necklace, — a 
heart  the  size  of  a  butter  plate,  a  horse-shoe  that  would  have 
shod  a  Shetland, — all  of  diamonds,  the  necklace  containing 
one  hundred  stones.  There  were  earrings  and  bar-pins  and 
bracelets  in  which  diamonds  predominated.  The  solitaire 
ruby  had  company;  two  huge  cabochons: — a  sapphire  and  an 
emerald;  and  a  Marquise  edged  with  these  latter,  cut  square, 
had  for  its  double-isosceles  triangle  a  pure-white  diamond  .  .  . 

"Four  thousand  just  for  that  one  alone.  Altogether," — 
she  considered,  wrinkling  her  pretty  brows :  "Thirty  thousand, 
at  least,"  she  said  triumphantly.  "He  was  determined  to  buy 
you  out,  Burt.  I  didn't  ask  for  half  of  them.  They  would 
come  with  notes;  silly  notes;  like  this."  She  snapped  a 
bundle  out  of  the  gold-fitted  portmanteau  she  carried.  "And 
he  never  even  got  the  chance  to  kiss  me.  I  don't  think  he 
dared.  Once  he  tried  to  hold  my  hand.  'That's  no  good,'  I 
told  him ;  'no  sense  to  that  until  you  make  me  care  for  you.' " 

"These  strong  men  always  believe  they  can  make  women 
care,"  murmured  Jarvis,  dazed  but  amused:  "As  well  try  to 
move  a  mountain  as  a  woman  who  doesn't  love  you  of  her 
own  free  will." 

"Of  course,  you  know  that;  but  then  my  darling's  so 
clever."  She  kissed  her  darling,  and  he  patted  her  hand.  She 
continued:  "As  soon  as  you  sailed  he  began  doing  all  that." 
She  waved  at  the  jewels.  "Did  you  read  the  note?" 

"Why,  what  a  damn'  scoundrel !"  remarked  Jarvis  with  an 
air  of  surprise ;  "also  what  a  damn'  fool !"  She  peeped.  "Oh ! 
that's  the  note  where  he  says  he'll  make  his  wife  get  a  divorce. 
Isn't  he  a  rat?  He  told  me  if  she  didn't  divorce  him,  he 
could  easily  pay  people  to  swear  to  things  that  would  make 
everything  easy  for  us.  Him  and  me !  Can  you  imagine  it  ? 
Do  you  wonder  I  beat  it  away  from  him?  It  was  worth  all 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  319 

these  things  just  to  listen  to  him  rave.  And,  anyway,  I 
couldn't  stay  away  from  my  darling — any — longer.  .  .  ." 

As  she  sobbed  on  his  arm,  Jarvis  blinked  his  eyes.  "You 
could  have  had  millions,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 

She  cocked  her  head,  bird-like,  and  peeped  up  with  one 
eye:  "I  couldn't  have  you,"  she  answered  him.  He  kissed 
her  with  real  warmth;  the  separation  of  more  than  a  month 
had  saddened  him  several  times  when  he  had  every  reason  to 
be  glad.  This  proof  of  the  extraordinary  value  she  had 
placed  upon  him  heightened  his  admiration  for  her.  He  took 
her  hand.  "We've  been  together  more  than  a  year,  haven't 
we?"  he  said.  "Then,  you  were  an  ignorant  little  chorus-girl 
with  your  pretty  little  head  swelled  by  fools'  flattery.  Now 
you  turn  down  a  millionaire,  because  even  his  compliments 
bore  you.  Shall  we  get  married,  Puss?  The  play  looks  like 
a  hit." 

As  she  had  urged  his  favorable  consideration  of  this  matter 
many  thousand  times,  she  now  wept  for  joy.  He,  sincerely 
touched,  caressed  her  with  a  fervor  foreign  to  his  nature. 
Such  men  succeed  with  women  because,  having  for  continual 
company  many  hundreds  of  mental  heroines,  they  understand 
that  one  woman  is  very  like  another,  given  that  she  be  pretty, 
adaptable  and  loves  greatly.  And  Burton  Jarvis  knew  so  much 
about  human  nature  that  he  could  write  nothing  but  comedy. 

But  "Puss"  had  made  herself  invaluable  to  him  in  many, 
many  ways;  and  when  he  reflected  on  the  trouble  he  had  in 
training  her  and  others  who  had  not  assimilated  education  so 
rapidly,  he  knew  he  would  never  feel  that  he  had  the  time  to 
devote  to  training  another: — there  were  so  many  plays  in 
his  head  that  even  when  he  had  written  for  his  allotted  span, 
he  would  die  with  many  forever  locked  up  there.  So  he 
thought  it  best  to  make  this  companionship  permanent  and 
settle  his  woman-question  for  all  time. 

It  was  with  a  certain  relief,  therefore,  that  he  went  to  St. 


320  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

George's  and  was  united  in  bonds  of  holy  matrimony  with 
Petra  Tschudy;  which  happened  to  be  Letty's  name  before 
she  had  a  stage-christening.  Both  of  them  had  completely 
forgotten  Richard  K.  Rubblejay. 


VI 

BUT  Rubblejay  had  forgotten  neither  of  them  and  was 
crossing  at  that  minute;  bribery  having  finally  opened  the 
lips  of  the  hall-boy  who  had  put  Letty's  trunks  on  the  taxicab 
to  the  steamer.  If  the  Jarvis  wedding  was  recorded  in  the 
Marconi  newspaper  on  board  ship — which  was  doubtful, 
Burton  having  yet  to  achieve  his  great  name — or  if  there  was 
mention  of  it  anywhere,  later,  Rubblejay  either  failed  to  hear 
or  the  name  Petra  Tschudy  meant  nothing  to  him.  He  found 
no  trace  of  her  at  any  hotels,  but  knew  the  Jarvis  address  since 
he  had  once  mailed  a  letter  for  her.  To  it,  then,  doggedly  in 
the  dusk  of  London  he  made  his  way.  As  he  approached 
Letty  was  sending  her  newly-engaged  maid  down  to  the  Em- 
bankment where,  in  a  fog  that  was  turning  to  a  cold  drizzle, 
hundreds  of  shivering  men  and  women  stood  lined-up;  wait- 
ing their  chance  at  the  wedge  of  bread  and  cup  of  coffee,  both 
very  thick,  that  is  given  there,  nightly,  to  those  who  sleep 
in  penny  dosses  or  nowhere  at  all.  The  maid's  apron  was 
full  of  copper  pennies. 

"Give  them  to  everybody  in  line  until  they  give  out," 
Letty  directed.  She  had  brought  them  in  her  dressing-bag 
from  the  money-lenders  at  Charing  Cross.  They  represented 
a  brooch  which  she  had  never  liked ;  "ugly  thing" ;  she  said. 
"And  I  just  can't  stand  seeing  those  poor  people  night  after 
night  and  not  doing  something." 

Privately,  Jarvis  decided  he  had  done  well  in  marrying 
her.  He  confessed  to  a  similar  inability  to  endure  the  sight 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  321 

of  so  much  suffering  without  a  personal  attempt  at  mitiga- 
tion; told  how  he  had  gone  along  the  line  asking  many  if  they 
had  places  to  sleep.  As  none  had  answered  "yes,"  his  change 
had  not  lasted  long.  "Of  course  some  had,"  he  understood 
that,  "but  how  was  I  to  know  which  ones."  Letty  kissed 
him.  At  that  moment  the  desk-telephone  rang  and  Mr.  Rub- 
blejay  was  announced.  Her  apprehension  of  jealous  hatred, 
her  fear  of  hurt  to  Jarvis,  kept  back  any  words  and  her 
silence  was  construed  as  assent  by  the  hallman  below.  Rub- 
blejay  must  have  alighted  at  their  floor  before  she  found 
words  to  warn  Jarvis. 

"Let  me  handle  him,  Burt,"  she  urged  tremulously;  "I'll 
get  him  away."  She  did  not  dare  express  fears  for  Burt's 
safety  lest  he  remain.  As  it  was,  he  found  the  incident  only 
a  vexing  trifle,  saying :  "Bother,  who'd  have  thought  he'd  turn 
up?"  and  was  willing  enough  to  shift  the  task  of  opening  the 
millionaire's  eyes.  He,  too,  had  forgotten  Rubble] ay  had  a 
heart  to  break;  to  both  of  them  he  had  only  a  fortune  to 
spend;  his  aura  was  but  a  huge  disk  of  gold.  As  for  Letty; 
vanished  was  the  sweet  womanliness  that  had  prompted  the 
sale  of  the  brooch,  the  kittenish  purring  that  marked  her 
relations  with  Jarvis.  She  was  annoyed  at  what  she  considered 
an  alien's  intrusion :  since  her  married  state  would  not  per- 
mit her  to  use  the  millionaire  in  the  only  capacity  for  which 
he  seemed  fitted.  She  had  but  too  willingly  judged  his  worth 
by  his  own  standard  of  money.  She  wished  him  to  go  and 
go  quickly;  yet  she  dared  not  tell  him  of  her  marriage.  She 
remembered  vaguely  of  men's  shooting  the  women  who  had 
deceived  them;  shooting  the  other  man,  too.  The  way  she 
tried  was  pitifully  inadequate;  telling  him  that  she  had  found 
love  for  him  impossible  and,  so,  fled. 

"To  Jarvis,"  he  thundered ;  "to  your — lover" ;  "a  little 
whipper-snapper  whelp : — when  I  offered  you  an  honest  man's 
name :  a  name  that  means  something  in  America,  in  the  world ; 


322  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

when  I  could  have  given  you  everything.  And  I  find  you 
here — in  his  apartment — his — and  who  is  he?  what  can  he 
give  you — nothing — NOTHING,  while  I  would,"  he  groaned. 
"Even  now.  Don't  tell  me  anything.  I  love  you.  Even  now, 
marry  me." 

"You  know  you're  married,"  she  said  fretfully.  "Please 
go." 

"I  told  you  I'd  fix  that.  My  wife's  been  nothing  to  me 
for  years.  Never  was,  really.  She  had  money:  I  got  my 
seat  through  her:  she's  ten  years  older'n  me."  He  spoke  the 
truth.  This  was  his  first  genuine  emotion.  He  had  sacrificed 
to  "getting  on"  even  the  chance  for  romance  that  lies  through 
marriage  with  one's  well-beloved  and  Love's  children.  In  days 
past,  his  business  had  tired  him  too  thoroughly  to  leave  fuel 
sufficient  to  feed  the  fire  of  a  passion.  But  he  had  been  idle 
a  year  now ;  and  for  three  months  of  it  his  business  had  been 
Letty.  His  wife — that  hateful  drab  woman — seemed  an  un- 
reasonable obstacle.  This  child  could  be  taught  to  love  him. 
He  did  not  doubt  Letty  cared  something  for  him;  his  belief 
was  that  she  had  gone  because  she  saw  in  him  no  ultimate 
marital  chance.  He  redoubled  in  speech  the  assurance  he 
had  already  written. 

"I  tell  you  I've  got  the  people  ready  to  swear  against  her: 
her  own  maid,  her  chauffeur,  her  butler — " 

Jarvis  in  the  next  room  had  divided  his  time  between 
listening,  and  watching  Letty's  largesse  being  distributed  to 
those  shivering  miserables  down  on  the  Embankment.  The 
connection  between  such  derelicts  and  Rubble  jay,  plainly  effect 
and  cause,  had  caused  him  to  burn  with  hatred  at  the  sound 
of  the  millionaire's  voice.  Actually,  he  desired  to  hurt  the 
fellow:  to  make  Rubble  jay  pay  not  only  for  his  own  share, 
but  for  all  his  fellows  responsible  with  him,  for  so  much 
unnecessary  misery.  This  final  treachery  against  his  wife 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  323 

was  the  flame  that  hardened  Jarvis's  heart  like  steel.  He 
stepped  out. 

'That  is  going  to  cost  you  just  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars,"  he  said  coldly.  He  held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 
"You  wrote  out  all  the  details  of  that  pretty  little  scheme. 
Letty  gave  me  the  letters — " 

"Good,"  said  Letty,  clapping  her  hands.  "It  serves  him 
right." 

Rubble  jay  stared  at  her  in  dull  misery;  only  half -under- 
standing. But  she,  remembering  the  annoyance  he  had  been 
to  her,  had  become  suddenly  vengeful,  too.  "People  like  you 
ought  to  be  made  suffer,"  she  said.  "If  you  knew  how  I 
hate  you."  She  ran  to  Jarvis  for  protection,  suddenly  realiz- 
ing how  groundless  were  her  fears  for  his  safety;  he  so 
strong,  Rubblejay  so  weak,  "yes,  hate  you.  I  was  in  love 
with  Burt  when  I  met  you.  We  fixed  it  up  that  day  to  make 
you  buy  that  first  ring;  he's  so  smart  and  you're  such  a 
fool.  Care  for  you?  You're  like  a  snake  to  me.  If  you 
touched  me  I'd  scream." 

Like  some  prisoner  of  the  Inquisition  searching  for  pity 
the  eyes  of  the  torturer  racking  him,  Rubblejay  was  unable 
to  remove  his  dull  gaze.  Yet,  actually,  her  arms  were  about 
Jarvis,  her  lips  against  his  cheek,  her  mouth  full  of  words  of 
affection  for  him,  hatred  for  her  benefactor.  Finally,  he 
realized.  "Played!  played  for  a  sucker,"  the  words  came 
back  as  he  remembered  an  experience  at  show-girl  hands  of 
some  other  Wall  Street  man.  How  he  had  laughed,  just  as 
thousands  would  find  only  laughter  for  him;  even  when  his 
whole  world  had  tumbled  down  and  crushed  him.  There  was 
no  man  under  the  debris :  only  a  tortured  soul ;  a  soul  that  had 
craved  life  and  was  dying  unborn.  He  could  not  speak. 

Jarvis  was  sorry.  He  was  sensitive:  he  felt,  although  no 
one  could  quite  understand,  how  terrible  was  this  man's  loss; 
realized  that  Rubblejay's  real  life  had  begun  that  night  in 


324  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Santayana's  and  that  he  had  lived,  since,  in  gorgeous  purple 
tents  of  wine,  woman,  and  song.  And  now  the  tents  were 
burned  and  he  had  no  place  of  refuge.  The  purposelessness 
of  his  life  had  been  manifest  before:  to  return  to  such  inertia 
was  impossible  now.  Having  been  moved  to  understand 
dimly  other  things,  torpitude  was  now  unbearable,  unbeliev- 
able. And  there  was  only  that.  These  things,  somehow, 
Jarvis  knew.  He  sought  to  make  it  easier  by  showing  Rub- 
blejay  that  when  he  chose  great  wealth  out  of  all  life  has  to 
offer,  he  could  expect  to  gain  nothing  else;  the  price  others 
paid  to  gratify  his  ambition  had  been  too  great.  Jarvis  threw 
up  the  blinds. 

"Look  at  those  starving  men  down  there,"  he  said.  "There 
are  thousands  like  them,  maybe  millions,  because  you  and 
your  kind  have  your  own  share  of  money  and  theirs,  too.  That 
is  our  fear ;  the  fear  of  all  poor  people — to  be  like  them.  That 
is  what  we  face  from  birth,  people  like  Letty  and  me. 

"How  can  you  expect  us  to  have  any  friendship  for  you 
unreasonably  rich  men  who  take  our  shares  and  threaten  us 
with  that?  Friends?  Impossible:  enemies  always.  You 
fight  us  down  on  the  Street,  in  Capel  Court,  in  the  Bourse. 
When  we  get  the  chance :  when  you  come  into  our  world ; 
we  are  just  as  unscrupulous  in  fighting  you.  You  are  un- 
scrupulous; otherwise  you  wouldn't  dare  have  unnecessary 
millions  while  those  poor  devils  starve  down  there. 

"So  we  don't  want  your  friendship ;  we  won't  accept  it. 
We  only  want  your  money: — our  money  and  their  money." 
He  pointed  again.  "You  pay  the  penalty,  Rubblejay.  You 
can't  buy  anything  worth  while.  You've  got  to  be  it.  I'm 
sorry  you've  found  that  out  too  late. 

"And  because  I'm  sorry,  I'm  a  fool.  There  are  your 
letters.  Good-night." 

He  flicked  across  the  ribbon-tied  bundle;  but  Rubblejay 
let  it  fall  unheeded.  He  still  stared.  He  had  not  seen  the 


'That  is  going  to  cost  you  just  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,"  he 

said  coldlv. 


325 

men  on  the  Embankment:  he  refused  the  reason;  he  only 
insisted  on  the  result.  He  could  not  understand,  even,  that, 
in  the  moment  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  millionaire  and  had 
been  pitifully  human,  relying  on  neither  wealth  now  power, 
Jarvis  had  been  helpless  against  him.  But  Rubblejay  ignored 
the  lesson,  only  saw  that  he  was  punished;  so  Jarvis  strode 
across  the  room,  stuffed  the  letters  into  the  other's  pocket, 
and,  almost,  pushed  him  to  the. door;  lest  cupidity  again  stir 
in  his  own  breast.  When  he  had  turned  the  lock,  he  breathed 
deep  relief:  the  reason  for  which  he  was  unable  to  explain. 
It  was  too  emotional  a  moment  for  introspection. 

Indeed,  it  was  years  before  the  scene  re-created  itself  and 
the  reason  for  that  sight  of  relief  stood  clear.  Years? — to  be 
exact,  seven,  and  he  stood  with  Letty  in  Covent  Garden  Mar- 
ket, breathing  in  at  sunrise  the  scent  of  a  thousand  spring- 
flowers,  a  scent  borne  to  them  on  the  dewy  breeze  of  dawn. 
They  had  remained  awake  for  the  morning-papers;  these, 
fresh  and  damp,  Letty  now  crushed  in  her  arms.  Each  and 
every  one  had  said  that  the  Jarvis  play  produced  "last  night" 
was  the  playwright  in  apogee :  that,  in  it,  he  was  no  longer 
merely  a  great  American  but  an  universal. 

Letty's  work  in  a  principal  role  also  had  been  accorded 
respectful  consideration.  "It  has  been  said  of  Miss  Lee  that 
she  began  as  a  chorus-girl.  If  that  fact  had  anything  to  do 
with  her  present  interpretative  powers,  we  strongly  urge 
chorus  experience  as  a  school  for  our  future  actresses.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Burt!!"  she  murmured.  He  awoke,  suddenly,  from 
reverie : 

"And  if  we'd  taken  that  money  from  Rubblejay,  we  might 
be  wasters,  to-day,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand.  "Might  have 
started  on  a  vacation  that  wouldn't  have  ended  until  the  money 
did ; — and  then  been  out  of  the  habit  of  work.  As  it  is  ... 
Poor  old  Rubblejay:  I  wonder  how  long  it  took  him  to  get 
over  it?" 


326  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


VII 

IT  is  hard  to  ansv/er  the  playwright's  question.  It  is  work 
for  the  expert  psychologist  rather  than  the  historian  to  de- 
termine whether,  by  the  time  Rubble  jay  forgot  Letty,  he  was 
too  deep  in  excesses  to  go  back ;  or  whether  he  so  continued 
to  banish  an  ever  recurring  memory.  Then,  again,  the  mis- 
fortunes that  grew  out  of  Letty 's  affair  also  must  have  played 
a  part  he  desired  to  forget;  for  he  had  been  so  mad  with 
disappointment  that  he  mislaid  the  bundle  of  letters  Jarvis 
gave  him  and,  somehow,  by  servants'  treachery  or  sheer  luck, 
they  fell  into  his  wife's  hands.  Whereupon  she  had  forced 
a  divorce  and  the  payment  of  her  dower-right,  one-third  of  his 
entire  fortune;  showing  by  her  conduct  through  the  trial, 
that,  whatever  her  sentiments  at  marriage,  he  had  alienated 
her  affections  long  since,  and  that  she,  too,  had  endured  him 
only  because  she  must. 

He  had  taken  great  pleasure  in  his  home;  but,  now,  the 
suspicion  that  every  one  tried  to  rob  him  was  increased  tenfold, 
and  when  he  must  handle  the  household  accounts,  such  was 
the  irritation  superinduced  by  the  petty  pilfering  of  servants 
that  he  had  sold  his  house  three  months  after  divorce  and 
gone  to  his  club.  So  there  was  denied  him  even  that  com- 
forting complacency  that  comes  to  small  souls  from  ruling 
a  large  staff  of  menials.  Therefore,  the  dream  of  a  home 
persisted  and  tortured  him;  since,  without  a  wife,  it  could 
not  be  realized.  He  might  have  married  any  number  of 
times;  some  women,  in  sheer  vacancy,  might  have  admired 
him;  but  all  in  whom  this  was  possible  were  poor  and,  in 
each,  he  saw  a  Letty,  and,  speaking,  through  her,  a  Jarvis ;  and 
he  was  too  old  for  silly  rich  women,  too  inane  for  wise  ones. 
As  for  male  companionship,  that  was  unchanged:  all  his  life 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  327 

he  had  worked,  so  did  not  know  how  to  play;  hence  was 
avoided  as  a  "duffer"  by  the  younger  generation;  while  the 
quiet  pleasures  of  old  gentlemen  only  irritated  him. 

In  sheer  desperation,  he  went  back  to  business  again.  But, 
this  time,  he  was  the  speculator.  A  new  combination  ruled 
Wall  Street  and  were  The  Fates.  With  decreased  interests, 
he  was  of  too  small  an  importance  to  be  given  a  seat  on  the 
steps  of  the  Throne;  although  several  times  he  was  misled 
into  thinking  he  was  "on  the  inside";  just  as,  a  few  years 
back,  he  had  misled  others.  Shorn,  he  left  the  street;  a  poor 
man  as  he,  to  whom  money  was  life,  counted  wealth.  So 
the  dread  fear  beset  him  that  he  was  no  longer  important; 
only  by  drinking  heavily  could  the  fear  be  dissipated ;  other- 
wise it  persisted  and  with  it  came  the  conviction  that  he  was 
an  ignorant  old  man  whom  anybody  could  trick,  anyone  de- 
lude ;  for  whom  no  one  cared  a  jot. 

Drunken,  in  bars  and  clubs  of  no  high  caliber;  so  long  as 
he  paid  for  the  drinks  of  his  listeners,  he  could  live  over  again 
the  days  when  he  was  a  Wall  Street  "power."  Staggering 
off  to  bed,  he  was  royal  in  the  tribute  of  overtipped  commis- 
sionaires, and  cabmen.  And  his  drinking  increased  in  propor- 
tion to  his  loneliness;  until,  at  the  time  Letty  and  Burt  stood 
successful  in  Covent  Garden,  his  relatives,  alarmed  at  the 
continual  shrinking  of  their  inheritance,  had  him  carted  off, 
one  gray  morning,  to  a  sanitarium ;  where,  denied  the  power  to 
deceive  himself,  he  died. 

/  wonder  if,  somewhere  there  is  not  lurking  the  microbe 
which,  some  day,  will  alight  upon  Letty  Lee?  For  is  not  the 
cycle  interminable?  Is  it  not  the  only  perpetual  motion  which 
this  earth  has  yet  achieved; — this  war  that  wages  forever; 
for  which  no  one  knows  the  cause,  yet  to  end  which  is  to  end 
All-Life? 

I  wonder. 


II.  FROM  THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PROMINENT 
CITIZEN 


THEY  hanged  poor  Brownie  the  other  day.  Out  in  one 
of  those  semi-barbarous  Southwestern  States,  they 
"hanged  him  by  the  neck  until  he  was  dead."  And 
here  I  am,  prosperous,  respected,  even  honored,  and  a  repre- 
sentative "of  the  people"  (as  "the  peepul"  love  to  believe)  in 
Congress.  But  if  Kincaid  had  met  him  instead  of  me  that 
night  before  Brownie  and  I  were  about  to  commit  our  biggest 
offense  against  the  law,  might  not  Buck  Tremmersett  have 
danced  on  nothing  down  there  in  the  Southwestern  desert 
and  the  Honorable  Arthur  Paget  Browne  deliberated  gravely 
on  lower  tariffs  and  bigger  navies?  I  am  no  hypocrite  in 
private,  no  matter  what  my  career  compels  me  to  be  in  public, 
and  what  little  there  was  to  choose  between  Brownie  and 
myself  was  all  on  his  side,  not  mine.  Poor  old  Brownie! 
I  suppose  he  had  to  pay  for  scores  of  ancestors  who  lolled 
on  plantation  porticoes  while  hundreds  of  slaves  sweated  to 
bring  in  money  to  be  danced  and  diced  away.  There  must  be 
some  good  reason  why  he  had  to  suffer  and  I  did  not,  and 
my  people  can  show  a  clean  bill  of  health:  they  worked  too 
hard  and  got  too  little  pay  to  have  the  time,  strength  or  money 
to  show  anything  else.  So  it  was  about  time  for  a  Trem- 
mersett to  come  in  for  the  good  things  of  the  earth;  whereas 
the  Paget-Brownes  had  them  fqr  a  hundred  years  or  more, 
until,  with  Browne's  grandfather,  the  family  fortunes  started 
to  landslide. 

328 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  329 

You  know  those  F.  F.  V.'s  of  nowadays,  don't  you? — 
most  of  them  not  to  be  distinguished  with  the  naked  eye  from 
plain  ordinary  citizens.  It's  only  when  the  Hunt  Balls 
come  off,  and  you  see  dancing  with  the  debutantes  the  fellow 
who  served  your  ice  cream  soda,  or  who  sold  you  your  socks, 
or  who  traded  in  new-laid  eggs  for  a  ham,  that  you  realize, 
without  any  awe,  that  you  have  a  speaking  acquaintance  with 
those  famous  first  families  of  song  and  story.  And  should  you 
ask  one  of  them  who  resides  in  the  red-brick  Tudor  mansion 
that  dominates  the  town  from  the  heights  nearby,  the  hand- 
somest house  roundabout,  you  are  apt  to  hear  that  "nobody" 
resides  there.  At  least  nobody  much:  only  those  Ketchams 
who  have  the  brewery  that  employs  half  the  population  of 
the  town.  But  old  man  Ketcham  kept  a  saloon  and,  although 
even  he  would  not  have  insulted  his  white  patrons  by  al- 
lowing negroes  at  the  bar,  it  was  an  open  scandal  that,  if 
they  handed  in  buckets  at  the  side  door,  they  would  not  be 
returned  empty. 

Whereas,  did  you  inadvertently  refer  to  an  unshaven,  un- 
sightly creature,  seeking  of  rum,  as  "that  old  drunk,"  the 
one  who  had  so  scornfully  put  in  their  negligible  place  the 
upstart  Ketchams  would  grow  stern  of  mien  and  request  that 
you  refer  more  respectfully  to  "one  of  the  Randolphs — the 
Randolphs,  sir."  And  "Brownie"  was  one  of  the  Brownes — 
"the  Paget-Brownes,  sir." 

I  first  saw  Brownie — I  was  far  too  unimportant  a  person 
to  meet  him  socially  those  days — at  a  county  horse  show, 
which  I  had  been  sent  to  report  for  a  Richmond  paper. 
"Brownie"  rode  his  dappled  mare  in  the  steeplechase  that 
followed,  made  a  good  showing,  and,  with  other  contestants 
of  good  families,  drank  wassail  at  the  Warrenton  House. 
At  the  ball  that  night,  two-score  negroes,  servants  of 
Brownie  and  his  friends,  stood  outside  under  the  chestnut 
trees,  in  charge  of  the  horses  and  rigs,  and,  even  more  im- 


330  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

portant,  of  divers  flasks.  Between  dances,  their  masters  left 
the  ballroom  and,  each  calling  for  his  "boy,"  the  flasks  were 
requisitioned  until  they  were  empty ;  as  a  result,  much  irresolu- 
tion in  walk  and  talk,  much  colliding  of  dancing  couples, 
much  stumbling,  one  or  two  falls,  a  deal  of  boisterous 
laughter.  The  women  did  not  seem  to  take  it  very  seriously: 
it  was  the  privilege  of  Paget-Brownes  or  Randolphs,  it 
seemed. 

I  often  wondered  why  Browne  ever  left  a  town  where,  by 
virtue  of  his  ancestry  and  despite  his  own  lack  of  enterprise 
and  position,  he  held  so  high  a  place.  "No  door  was  shut 
to  him,"  as  their  saying  is;  he  attended  the  most  exclusive 
affairs,  was  greeted  respectfully  by  "white  trash"  and  negroes, 
was  tended  solicitously  when  drunk  and  carried  home  tenderly. 
He  might  have  entered  politics,  and  his  popularity  would  have 
carried  him  almost  as  far  as  my  brains  and  work  have  since 
carried  me.  He  might  have  married  one  of  many  girls  of 
his  own  class,  many  of  whom  had  more  money  than  he.  Be- 
tween the  interest  on  such  a  wife's  money  and  that  which 
could  be  gained  from  the  remaining  acres  of  the  original 
Paget-Browne  patent,  Brownie's  income  would  have  been 
ample  for  all  the  necessities  and  for  some  luxuries.  And  all 
this  without  any  labor  to  speak  of,  for  most  of  the  farming 
down  there  was  done  by  "white  trash"  and  negroes  on  the 
sharing  principle.  Or  he  might  have  married  among  the 
newly-rich  anxious  for  a  position  in  county  society:  one  of 
the  Ketcham  girls  was  "crazy  about  him"  (as  she  would  have 
said),  and  there  were  others  besides  the  Ketchams.  But  I 
suppose  the  monotony  of  the  social  system  bored  him.  So, 
when  he  inherited  his  acres,  he  sold  them  and  came  to  New 
York. 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  831 


II 

I  DID  not  know  him  in  his  early  New  York  days.  I  gather 
from  his  subsequent  conversation  that  he  had  confidence  in 
his  knowledge  of  horseflesh.  The  tracks  were  in  their  heyday 
then:  Morris  Park,  Gravesend  and  Sheepshead;  and  nearby, 
Saratoga,  Pimlico,  Bennings.  In  the  intervals  between 
"meets"  he  attended  prizefights  and  took  financial  interests 
therein,  and  called  by  their  nicknames  wheel-men,  faro-dealers 
and  the  proprietors  of  poker-parlors — privileges  for  which  one 
must  pay  highly. 

Often  I  have  wondered  at  the  imaginations  that  can  con- 
ceive of  profitable  gambling  for  outsiders.  In  Monte  Carlo 
one  sees  a  block  of  marble  palaces  built  from  proprietary 
profits,  most  expensive  paintings  and  statuary  within,  a  horde 
of  well-dressed  employees ;  knows  that  after  the  Prince  of 
Monaco  has  received  millions  a  year  for  his  rental,  and  the 
entire  taxes  of  the  country  have  also  been  paid,  the  profits  are 
still  enormous.  At  Ascot  or  Epsom,  in  Tattersall's  private 
enclosure,  one  sees  the  same  prosperous,  paunched  book- 
makers year  after  year,  and  in  London  at  "the  Roman's"  their 
wives  or  sweethearts  blazing  with  jewelry.  On  Broadway, 
at  Curate's  or  Sydenham's  the  wives  or  sweethearts  of  New 
York  gambling-house  proprietors,  arrayed  like  Solomon's 
lilies,  may  be  observed  drinking  the  costliest  wines.  .  .  .  And 
these  are  honest  proprietors;  yet  the  outsider  must  also  take 
his  chances  against  more  than  occasional  "brace"  games: 
electrically  connected  "wheels,"  "high  layouts,"  "strippers" 
and  factory-marked  cards,  "signaling,"  "cold  decks"  and  many 
and  various  private  dexterities  of  professional  card-men.  In 
the  face  of  all  this,  gambling  by  outsiders  seems  nothing  less 
than  a  disease. 

I  imagine  Brownie,  unawares,  encountered  all  the  brace 


332  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

games.  Though  he  had  many  splendid  strokes  of  racetrack 
luck,  he  was  penniless  in  less  than  two  years.  When  I  next 
saw  him,  it  was  at  the  Belvedere,  where  we  both  lived,  a  cheap 
lodging-house,  called  a  hotel  because  it  had  a  lobby  and  a  clerk 
at  the  desk:  one  of  those  innumerable  side-street  Tenderloin 
places  from  which  the  poor  go  forth  to  prey  on  the  rich. 
Here,  for  want  of  funds,  we  sat  in  the  lobby;  for  want  of 
something  to  do,  we  formulated  all  sorts  of  petty  larceny 
schemes.  Somehow,  we  managed  to  keep  alive:  in  my  case, 
chiefly  because  of  my  idea  about  the  duplicate  lunch-room 
checks. 

It  was  this  that  brought  Brownie  and  me  together.  Up 
to  then  I  had  not  remarked  him  save  as  the  one  of  us  sunk 
in  the  deepest  gloom,  for  the  racing  season  was  over.  While 
the  tracks  had  been  open,  even  if  he  failed  to  net  anything 
by  the  sale  of  his  tips,  always  there  was  some  lucky  winner 
who  knew  him  when  he  had  been  a  "gentleman,"  and  would 
"stake"  him  to  a  "finnif,"  as  he  would  have  expressed  it  then. 
Talk  about  "blood  tells" ! — here  was  the  descendant  of  all  the 
Paget-Brownes,  accepting  charity  from  ex-stable  boys,  jockeys, 
coarse,  ungrammatical  racetrack  followers.  And  his  speech 
was  composed  entirely  of  what  such  people  call  "wise  cracks" 
— the  patter  of  the  underworld.  So  much  so  that  he  was 
afterward  dubbed  "The  Wise  Cracking  Kid." 

"We  see  a  lot  of  that  sort,"  an  experienced  lawbreaker 
told  me  afterward,  one  day  in  London,  when  the  conversation 
happened  to  drift  to  old  days  at  the  Belvedere.  He  was  a 
courtly-mannered  old  gentleman  with  silvered  hair,  a  monocle 
and  a  precise,  melodious  speech.  "I  don't  just  know  the 
reason  for  the  germ.  I  suppose  the  explanation  lies  along 
the  same  psychological  lines  as  that  of  the  kids  who  play  at 
Robin  Hood  and  Dick  Turpin — and  later  in  life  tell  girls 
how  wicked  they  are:  drunk  every  night — wild  fellows.  It's 
effective  with  some  girls,  too.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  the  underworld 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  333 

is  full  of  boys  who  never  stole  a  dollar:  who  haven't  the 
nerve.  They  sponge  on  people  who  have,  run  their  errands — 
lobby gows.  Some  even  get  money  from  home.  What  they 
love  best  is  to  find  people  a  little  more  ignorant  or  inexperi- 
enced than  themselves — girls  especially — and  tell  them  how 
they  broke  into  banks  and  held  up  trains  or  did  some  desperate 
deed  somewhere.  ...  I  knew  one  once  who  would  buy  a 
billfold,  dirty  it  up  a  bit,  put  a  few  dollars  into  it  and  come 
rushing  into  a  hangout,  telling  us  how  he  'nicked  a  boob  for 
this  poke  on  a  crosstown  short  with  a  big  harness  bull  right  at 
my  mitt!'  He  never  used  ordinary  English  if  there  was  a 
'wise  crack'  equivalent;  and  he  pulled  that  billfold  stunt  half 
a  dozen  times  until  we  began  to  wonder  why  they  were  all 
alike,  outside  and  in — " 


III 

BROWNIE  wasn't  that  bad,  of  course;  but  I  know  he  was 
guiltless  of  any  illegal  offense  before  we  met.  But,  to  hear 
him,  although  he  was  never  specific  about  time  or  place  or 
the  character  of  his  crimes,  you  might  have  imagined  he  was 
Black  Bart;  and,  though  I  have  known  many  thieves,  never 
one  has  spoken  so  fluently  the  argot  of  the  underworld.  For 
this  he  commanded  the  admiration  of  most  of  the  Belvedere 
residents:  a  stupid  lot,  generally.  I  suppose  none  of  them 
had  ever  dared  lay  hands  on  anything  of  greater  value  than 
the  petit  larceny  law  covered.  Mostly,  they  had  drifted  into 
the  lower  world  through  sheer  inability  to  secure  high  enough 
wages  to  be  other  than  half  starved;  and  they  welcomed 
Browne's  tales  as  the  realization  of  their  own  ambitions.  As 
for  Brownie,  having  been  shamefully  despoiled  of  his  inheri- 
ance  by  sharper  men,  I  suppose  it  was  some  innate  power  of 
self-deception  that  he  used  to  preserve  his  self-respect.  He 


334  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

was  loudest  in  his  derision  of  "easy  marks,"  perhaps  for  fear 
these  Belvedere  folk  would  discover  he  had  been  one. 

Personally,  the  calling  of  crook  never  appealed  to  me. 
Always  I  have  believed  that,  in  this  world  of  fools,  a  man 
is  deficient  who  cannot  keep  within  legal  limits  and  flourish. 
I  had  flourished  in  my  native  town,  had  been  a  city  editor  at 
nineteen;  but  two  years  of  it  convinced  my  immature  brain 
that  the  town  was  too  small  for  my  large  talents — this  very 
town  which  I  now  represent  in  Congress,  pitiful  little  ass  that 
I  was !  It  is  a  common  fever,  and  it  crowds  New  York :  the 
small  town  is  the  place  for  big  returns  nowadays;  in  New 
York  most  people  are  squelched  by  subordination  if  they  find 
jobs,  or  fall  into  crooked  ways  if  they  don't.  I  had  been 
unable  to  secure  anything  that  offered  even  a  living  wage — 
according  to  my  ideas  of  living — and  while  remaining  unat- 
tached that  I  might  be  ready  when  something  worthy  of  me 
should  turn  up — as  I  imagined  importantly  it  was  bound  to 
do — I  came  down  to  my  last  five  dollars. 

It  was  then  that  I  conceived  the  plans  of  the  duplicate 
lunch-room  checks,  and  turned  to  view  the  lobby  loungers  for 
the  best  partner — it  needed  another  man.  Brownie  was  near- 
est, and  I  beckoned  him  out  for  a  walk,  during  which  I  out- 
lined my  plan  to  get  food  and  drink  for  nothing — almost. 
Brownie  was  enthusiastic.  Since  the  tracks  had  closed  down 
he  had  not  eaten  with  any  degree  of  regularity. 

My  system  was  simple,  and  may  still  be  utilized  by  any 
two  hungry  ones.  I  give  it  here  for  their  benefit.  In  the 
cheaper  restaurants  or  lunch-room  the  waitress  punches  on 
a  check  the  amount  of  one's  meal — which  is  payable  to  the 
sharp-eyed  cashier  at  the  only  exit.  I  entered  one  of  these 
restaurants,  and  passing  far  to  the  rear  ordered  a  glass  of 
milk  which  I  drank  so  slowly  and  over  which  I  dawdled  so 
long  that  it  was  ten  minutes  before  I  called  for  my  check. 
The  waitress  insisted  that  she  had  given  it  to  me  at  the 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  335 

moment  of  serving:  I  was  equally  insistent  in  the  negative, 
although  to  please  her  I  searched  every  pocket,  looked  under 
the  table  and  elsewhere.  Finally  she  accompanied  me  to  the 
cashier,  explaining  that  the  check  was  lacking;  and  I  was 
allowed  to  ransom  myself  without  it.  After  a  similar  experi- 
ence in  a  place  just  over  the  way,  Brownie  joined  me  around 
the  corner,  and  we  exchanged  checks  and  restaurants.  Pass- 
ing into  this,  I  took  another  retired  position;  and  ordered  a 
hungry  man's  meal,  denying  myself  nothing;  the  check  for 
which  I  buried  deep  in  an  inside  pocket.  Then,  waiting  until 
a  number  of  people  should  be  in  line  at  the  cashier's  cage, 
I  joined  them,  paid  Brownie's  check  for  his  single  cup  of 
coffee  and  joined  him  again,  this  time  bright  of  eye  and  of 
speech,  the  recipient  of  a  meal  whose  like  had  not  cheered 
him  in  a  decennium — or  so  it  had  seemed  to  him ;  and  this  plan 
of  procuring  our  daily  bread  we  continued  as  far  north  as 
Fifty-eighth  Street  and  as  far  south  as  Madison  Square  for 
the  better  part  of  two  weeks;  when  the  threat  of  the  clerk 
at  the  Belvedere  made  me  turn  to  the  consideration  of  schemes 
that  would  produce  room-rent.  Resulted  the  idea  of  the  Bibles : 
as  simple  basically  and  structurally  as  the  other. 

It  came  from  glancing  idly  and  aimlessly  through  a  news- 
paper, the  favorite  of  middle-class  respectability,  a  copy  of 
which  had  been  abandoned  in  an  "L"  train  on  which  I  was 
returning  from  my  'steen-hundredth  rejection  by  Park  Row. 
When  one  wishes  to  avoid  intimate  and  unpleasant  reflections, 
any  sort  of  reading  matter  serves ;  and,  as  there  was  about 
to  be  confided  to  me  the  bitter  conviction  that  I  was  an  in- 
competent ass,  I  pretended  interest  even  in  advertising,  divert- 
ing my  contempt  to  those  fools  for  whom  certain  palpable 
swindles  were  set  forth  at  great  expense.  "What  sort  of 
people  invest  in  such  things?"  I  asked  myself,  and  was  an- 
swered by  the  obituary  column  where,  in  agate  type,  at  no 
inconsiderable  number  of  pennies  per  line,  was  inserted  atro- 


336  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

cious  doggerel  "In  Memoriam."  One  particularly — I,  an  in- 
telligent man,  without  funds  and  money  wasted  on  such 
ghastly,  grisly  nonsense — shook  me  with  silent  scorn: 

My  Dear  Husband's  gone  to  Heaven, 

On  an  Angel's  Wing, 
Up  There  on  the  Streets  so  Golden, 

Praises  he  will  sing. 

BY  HIS  LOVING  WIFE. 

.  .  .  "Mrs.  Jerry  K.  Winch" — the  address  a  Harlem  one.  As 
I  mused  over  her  superlative  idiocy,  the  personal  side  of  it 
occurred  to  me.  The  money  of  such  folk  must  be  easy  to 
get;  why  shouldn't  /  have  some  of  it?  In  another  minute 
I  saw  a  way.  So  I  left  the  train  at  Astor  Place  instead  of 
Herald  Square.  At  the  office  of  the  American  Bible  Society 
I  bought  two  very  respectable  imitations  of  leather-bound 
Bibles.  Around  the  corner,  where  the  clerk  directed  me,  I 
ordered  gold  stamping  for  each,  Gutenberg  type,  Gothic, 
impressive  but  inexpensive:  "Jerry  K.  Winch"  for  one, 
"Ephraim  Cowley"  for  the  other!  Ephraim  had  been  in  the 
same  column.  But  after  I  had  sent  Brownie  for  them  later 
in  the  day,  he  showed  his  usual  lack  of  constructive  imagina- 
tion, and  I  was  forced  to  explain. 

"We  call,  asking  for  Mr.  Winch.  After  sad  news,  sur- 
prise— sympathy — condolences — 'We  won't  intrude  business  at 
such  a  time' — prepare  to  go.  'Any  friend  of  my  own  dear 
husband's' — we  yield  to  her  persuasions:  unwrap  Bible — 
there's  his  name  in  bright  gold  letters — his  last  message.  'A 
few  weeks  ago  Mr.  Winch  ordered  a  Bible  from  us.  .  .  .'  The 
rest  is  pure  logic.  If  she  loved  him  enough  to  break  into  print 
at  fifty  cents  a  line,  what  will  she  do  when  she  thinks  poor 
dear  Jerry  was  so  thoughtful  of  his  soul  that  he  ordered 
another  Bible  ?  It  makes  his  salvation  sure.  She'll  gladly  pay 
four  dollars  for  that.  The  cost,  including  stamping  and  car- 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  337 

fare,  is  a  dollar  and  thirty-five  cents.  Figure  three  or  four 
a  day.  Gives  me  plenty  of  time  to  keep  hunting  my  job 
and  you  to  dope  out  those  'past  performance'  tables." 

"It  seems  a  dirty  trick,"  said  that  ridiculous  Brownie. 
"However — "  he  hastened  to  add. 

He  resurrected  his  frockcoat  from  the  pawnshop  after  I 
had  made  the  Winch  sale,  and  wore  with  it  a  white  lawn  tie — 
as  I  did;  and,  with  our  none  too  recent  top  hats,  we  looked 
like  earnest  young  divinity  students.  We  made  only  one  slip 
— where  the  husband  had  been  bedridden  for  nearly  a  year 
before  his  death;  but  even  then  I  convinced  his  widow  he 
had  ordered  through  a  friend.  Such  people,  as  their  poetic 
efforts  show,  will  stand  for  anything.  I  cannot  see,  to  this 
day,  what  harm  we  did.  We  made  them  happy  with  the 
thought  that  the  minds  of  the  departed  ones  had  been  on 
spiritual  things.  And  we  encouraged  Biblical  study.  How- 
ever, that  young  sentimentalist,  Brownie,  had  to  spoil  it  all. 

It  was  after  a  month  of  profitable  sales  that  I  found  him 
seated,  half  drunk,  in  the  hotel  bar,  gloomy  and  depressed. 
He  wept  into  his  whiskey  when  he  told  me  why;  and  I,  too, 
became  sufficiently  sentimental  after  several  drinks  to  share 
his  melancholy  and  self-hate  and  to  swear  off  peddling  Bibles. 

Mrs.  Michael  Hartigan  had  done  it.  She  drew  ten  dollars 
a  week  in  a  department  store  and  paid  out  three  to  a  woman 
who  minded  her  baby.  The  husband  had  died  an  atheist.  Not 
the  least  of  her  sorrows  had  been  the  thought  that  a  particu- 
larly hot  spike  in  hell  had  been  dusted  off  on  his  arrival. 
The  ordering  of  the  Bible  proved,  instead,  that  he  was  wear- 
ing the  glorified  nightgown  uniform  of  a  member  of  the 
Heavenly  Host.  She  had  fainted  for  joy,  clutching  Michael's 
passport  to  the  better  world;  and  when  the  contrite  Brownie 
had  revived  her,  she  begged  him  to  let  her  keep  it  on  the 
instalment  plan:  she  had  only  a  dollar  in  cash.  Brownie  who 
had  taken  the  Bible  from  her  while  she  was  unconscious, 


338  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

now  slipped  in  ten  dollars  between  the  pages,  and,  incoherent, 
departed. 

"What  a  filthy  business!"  he  said  fiercely.  "I'm  done. 
I'm  through.  I'd  rather  starve."  Somehow,  he  managed  to 
convince  me  that  I  would,  too.  I'm  the  most  moral  man  in 
the  world  when  I  have  a  few  dollars  in  the  bank. 


IV 

IT  was  soon  after  this  that  we  met  Gracie  Graham. 
Brownie  fell  in  love  with  her  and  she  with  me.  Brownie  was 
too  tame  for  her:  he  would  fetch  and  carry  and  pay  her 
compliments,  just  like  the  men  on  whom  she  preyed.  But 
I  gave  her  to  understand  on  several  occasions  that,  when  I 
associated  with  a  semi-educated  young  woman  of  no  great 
mental  endowments,  I  condescended.  True,  she  was  pretty 
enough;  and  like  all  New  York  women  who  have  the  price, 
she  wore  smart  clothes;  and,  for  the  reason  that  New  York 
contains  more  ignorant  men  with  money  than  any  city  in 
the  world,  she  could  pick  and  choose  among  half  a  dozen 
daily  as  to  which  was  to  have  the  honor  of  paying  for  her 
dinner  and  taxicabs:  with  a  sad  story  at  the  end  of  it  when 
the  man  asked  her  to  see  him  the  next  night:  a  story  about 
the  horrid  old  man  who  had  promised  her  a  cheque  if  she 
would  dine  with  him  then;  and,  much  as  she  hated  it,  if 
she  didn't  she  would  lose  all  the  money  she  had  paid  on  her 
diamond  ring  and  the  instalment  house  would  take  the  ring 
back.  That  was  one  story:  she  had  half  a  dozen  just  as 
effective.  When  the  rescuer  wanted  his  payment,  she  was  out. 
New  York  is  full  of  Gracie  Grahams. 

Of  course,  she  didn't  try  any  such  tricks  on  us,  for,  al- 
though our  new  hotel  was  better  than  the  Belvedere,  it  was 
not  the  sort  that  sheltered  wealth.  Besides,  all  human  beings 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  339 

love  confidantes.  You  lose  half  the  pleasure  of  making  one 
person  look  foolish  if  you  cannot  tell  another  one ;  who,  living 
the  same  sort  of  life  as  yours,  cannot  condemn  and  will  likely 
applaud.  As  Anson  Eagle,  who  lived  as  we  did  in  those 
days,  wrote  in  his  "Ballads  of  Broadway": 

For  a  life  like  this,  it  lonely  is, 

With  never  a  steady  pal, 

To  be  at  the  joint  when  you  come  to  tell 

How  you  grabbed  a  live  one  and  how  he  fell 

For  the  "old  thing"  game  or  the  upturned  shell: 

So  the  boy  he  got  him  a  gal. 

Brownie,  true  to  his  belief  of  the  way  to  win  a  woman, 
had  told  Gracie  all  sorts  of  fantastic  lies  about  our  exploits 
as  chevaliers  d'industrie  and  our  narrow  escapes  from  the 
hands  of  the  law;  which  I  was  forced  to  confirm  when  called 
upon.  Brownie  had  confided  his  love  to  me  the  first  day  we 
met  Gracie,  and  I  would  not  be  a  stumbling-block.  In  return, 
when  I  was  present,  Gracie  told  some  lies  of  her  own :  founded 
on  truth,  doubtless,  but  three-quarters  fiction  in  toto;  and 
Brownie  set  himself  the  task  of  advising  her  to  greater  profit. 
He  was  always  talking  about  "not  going  color-blind  looking 
at  silver — get  the  big  money" ;  and  all  the  while  the  savings 
from  our  Bible  scheme  were  running  low ;  and  they  ran  lower 
when  Gracie  borrowed  most  of  Brownie's  and  he  had  to  bor- 
row from  me. 

"Well,"  he  protested  sulkily  when  I  chided  him — "well, 
you  know  how  things  are  in  the  summer.  None  of  the  good 
men  are  in  town,  and  the  few  that  are  she  don't  meet  because 
she  isn't  working."  Gracie  had  always  had  a  roof-garden 
engagement  previous  summers.  "But  there's  a  man  coming 
from  Chicago  next  week,  worth  barrels  and  crazy  about  her. 
Don't  bother  about  anything  you  loan  her — " 

We  heard  much  of  this  man  subsequently  from  Gracie, 


340  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

He  had  written  her  several  times  most  respectfully :  and,  from 
his  orthography  and  calligraphy,  seemed  the  sort  to  be  senti- 
mental and  liberal ;  but  he  continued  to  delay  his  arrival  until, 
when  finally  he  did  come,  my  savings  had  vanished.  So, 
between  us  and  eviction,  we  had  only  what  Gracie  owed 
Brownie,  and  we  were  back  at  our  lunch-room  tricks  for  meals. 

Judge  our  horror  then  when,  on  the  night  that  the  Chicago 
man  came,  Gracie  ran  swiftly  into  our  room  without  knocking, 
telling  us  in  guarded  whispers  that  our  Chicago  rescue  party 
was  in  her  sitting-room ;  that  he  was  vilely  intoxicated ;  that 
he  had  insulted  her  grossly,  and  that  she  had  been  compelled 
to  flee  to  us  for  protection ! 

Brownie  started  up,  swearing;  but  she  pulled  him  back. 
"And  just  think,"  she  wailed:  "he  must  have  thousands  in 
his  pocket — a  bit  fat  roll  so  thick.  .  .  .  He  showed  it  to  me. 
If  I  could  only  have  snatched  it  and  run !"  Her  eyes  sought 
mine.  "The  beast!  Can't  somebody  do  something  to  him? 
Is  he  to  have  all  that  and  we  starve?"  Still  her  eyes  inquired 
of  mine,  mutely.  "If  we  only  knew  someone  who'd  just 
knock  him  down  and  take  it !" 

"Why!"  said  Brownie  valiantly.  "Why—"  But  she 
looked  at  me.  I  think  she  realized  that  Brownie  would  make 
excuses:  would  explain  how,  if  it  wasn't  for  fear  of  having 
her  name  involved — if  it  wasn't  that  everybody  knew  we  were 
her  intimates — if  it  wasn't  for — any  number  of  good  reasons, 
he,  Arthur  Paget-Browne,  would — do  any  number  of  des- 
perate things.  Women  reason  better  than  men  realize;  but, 
because  they  reason  with  their  subconscious  brain  and  are 
unable  to  give  categories  and  syllogisms  with  their  results, 
men  refer  to  their  "intuition"  as  though  it  were  a  form  of 
hysteria. 

It  was  then  I  realized  Brownie  hadn't  a  show  if  I  cared 
to  go  after  this  girl;  and  such  is  the  natural  egotism  of  men 
that  my  sole  purpose  at  the  moment  was  to  prove  her  con- 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  341 

fidence  in  me  was  deserved.  I  had  a  flash  of  futurities, 
allied  with  her.  I  had  been  on  the  wrong  track:  my  talents, 
doubtless,  lay  along  the  lines  of  larceny;  for  the  first  time, 
I  recall  the  lunch-room  and  Bible  grafts  with  some  pride. 
This  girl  had  divined  those  talents.  Together  we  would  go 
down  in  the  history  of  law-breaking  as  the  most  remarkable 
of  all  criminal  couples.  And  the  prospect  actually  stirred 
me  and  set  my  heart  to  beating  high. 

But  my  head  was  clear:  I  saw  her  little  game.  "Go  on 
back  to  him  now,"  I  said  coolly.  "Even  if  he  is  blind  drunk, 
he  may  suspect.  You  needn't  have  told  that  yarn  about  his 
insults  and  his  attacks.  We  all  need  the  money  too  badly 
to  need  excuses  for  our  consciences — "  She  interrupted  me 
with  an  indignant  exclamation,  and  with  what  a  certain  type 
of  writer  calls  "flashing  eyes."  "Now,  now,"  I  urged,  smiling, 
"remember  you're  among  friends  and  you  can  tell  your  real 
name.  You  saw  the  roll,  saw  he  was  drunk  and  wondered 
how  you  could  get  it.  Then  you  thought  if  you  could  stir 
us  up  with  a  tale  of  bitter  wrong,  we  would  think  it  was 
morally  right  to  take  it.  Well,  maybe  it  is ;  maybe  he  stole  it. 
Maybe  it's  wrong;  maybe  he  didn't.  But  we'll  grab  it  any- 
how. ...  So  you  get  back  to  him.  When  you  send  him 
away  tell  him  not  to  take  a  cab, — say  some  nighthawk  is  apt 
to  drive  him  to  some  lonely  place  and  brain  him.  He  mustn't 
take  a  cab.  That  would  be  the  blow-off." 

"But  I  thought—"  she  began. 

"You  thought  we  could  do  it  here?"  I  asked  scornfully. 
"We  couldn't  spend  enough  to-night  to  pay  for  seven  years 
up  the  river.  Run  along  now." 

If  Brownie  had  not  been  there,  she  would  have  thrown 
her  arms  around  me.  As  it  was,  she  used  her  eyes. 

"Be  careful,"  she  said — "oh,  do  be  careful.  I'd  never 
forgive  myself.  .  .  ."  Poor  Brownie  was  too  occupied  with 
dismal  forebodings  to  notice  that  none  of  her  solicitude  was 


342  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

for  him.  Outside  the  hotel,  he  "wondered  if  it  was  wise"  and 
was  informed  that  his  services  were  not  necessary.  "Go  back 
and  tell  her  /'//  bring  the  roll,"  I  jeered.  That  decided  him. 
Although,  even  then,  he  did  none  of  the  actual  work.  It  was 
I  who  struck  the  fellow  down. 

It  was  no  great  feat  of  either  power  or  cunning.  To  reach 
Broadway,  he  must  pass  through  a  sort  of  Valley  of  the 
Shadows — a  row  of  gambling-houses,  their  fronts  shuttered, 
silent  and  unlighted:  between  any  two  pairs  of  high  brown- 
stone  steps  broad  patches  of  sheer  dusky  gloom.  As  he 
passed,  Brownie,  lounging  as  directed,  asked  him  for  a  match, 
moving  into  the  shadow  patch  as  he  did  so ;  for  otherwise  pos- 
sible sharp  eyes  at  either  end  of  the  block  might  see  the  fall. 
This  way  it  appeared  to  any  such  that  he  had  stepped  in  toward 
a  gratinged  basement  entrance,  and  had  been  admitted  to  a 
gambling-house — a  very  credible  thing  for  a  drunken  man 
to  do. 

The  high  steps  on  either  side  hid  any  further  operations, 
and  when  he  had  fallen  under  a  well-directed  blow  from  my 
heavy-knitted  cocobolo  walking-stick,  we  had  only  passers-by, 
or  persons  emerging  from  the  basement  to  fear  while  we — 
or  rather  I — poor  shivering  Brownie  would  not  touch  him — 
collected  the  spoils. 

I  felt  his  heart — I'll  say  that  much  for  myself;  and  I  left 
his  watch,  stickpin,  cigarette-case  and  all  other  articles  of 
value  except  the  roll.  People  came  and  went  every  little  while 
from  the  gambling-house,  and  he  would  soon  be  discovered 
and  sent  on  his  way — so  I  assured  Brownie,  but  he  needed 
four  strong  slugs  of  whiskey  before  he  could  believe  this,  or 
anything  else.  It  was  not  until  after  we  had  counted  the 
money  and  found  it  was  considerably  more  than  two  thousand 
that  Brownie  began  to  feel  that  what  we  had  done  was  right. 
And,  when  we  returned  to  Gracie,  he  felt  that  it  had  been  not 
only  right  but  noble.  To  hear  him  tell  it  was  like  reading 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS    ..       343 

a  newspaper  account :  all  wrong  but  very  romantic.  He  added 
details  of  his  own  mental  processes  the  existence  of  which 
had  not  been  revealed  at  the  time  by  his  pale,  scared  face. 
It  appeared  he  had  not  been  scared  at  all:  he  was  too  busy 
plotting  craftily  and  bloodthirstily  what  he  would  do  should 
passers-by  or  police  intervene;  and  he  had  been  crouched 
like  a  panther  waiting  to  deal  a  decisive  blow  should  mine 
prove  ineffective.  As  I  listened  to  him,  it  seemed  the  effi- 
ciency of  my  action  was  merely  accidental :  Brownie  had  con- 
ceded me  the  initiative  out  of  pure  unselfishness. 

Nevertheless,  his  enthusiasm  for  our  new  profession,  now 
that  the  plunge  was  over,  infected  me;  and  Grade's  ardent 
gaze  helped  me  to  a  like  enthusiasm.  Abandoned  were  all 
ambitions  to  become  a  Greeley,  a  Dana  or  a  Brisbane.  I 
spoke  contemptuously  of  all  dull  plodding  drones  willing  to 
accept  honest  drudgery.  Eight  hundred  apiece  for  the  work 
of  a  few  moments ! 

Within  the  next  few  days,  after  waiting  for  our  victim 
to  recover  and  return  to  Chicago — a  journey  on  Gracie's  part 
would  have  been  a  confession  of  guilt  before  that — we  three 
sailed  for  Southampton ;  Gracie  and  I  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James 
Buchanan  Stone;  Brownie  trailing  along,  partly  consoled  for 
his  disappointment  of  the  heart  by  smart  new  clothes  and 
roseate  promises  the  future  held  forth. 


I  DO  not  remember  seeing  in  print  at  any  time  anything 
that  adequately  describes  the  life  for  which  we  had  now 
definitely  declared  ourselves.  Either  one  reads  of  low,  be- 
sotted criminals  such  as  were  first  made  familiar  to  the  public 
by  Hogarth  and  by  "Oliver  Twist,"  or  else  they  are  romantic 
ifellows  who  never  lived  outside  fiction:  descendants  of  Har- 


344  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

rison  Ainsworth's  heroes,  "Lupins,"  "Raffleses,"  "Walling- 
fords" — whose  authors  know  of  the  underworld  only  by 
hearsay.  The  real  people  have  no  distinguishing  character- 
istics, save  that,  as  a  rule,  their  profession  demands  they  be 
better  groomed  than  the  average  citizen  and  spend  money 
more  freely.  They  are  to  be  found  in  every  first-class  cafe, 
and  in  half  of  the  clubs,  of  any  cosmopolitan  city.  Many  have 
titles — some  real,  some  not;  most  are  excellently  educated 
and  entertaining  of  discourse;  a  goodish  half  are  ex-profes- 
sional men.  Waiters — even  head-waiters — welcome  them: 
they  tip  better  than  most  and  are  on  speaking  terms  with  a 
large  proportion  of  the  aristocracy  of  spenders.  They  are 
assisted  by  many  friends  and  familiars  who  share  their  spoils 
— actors,  actresses  and  theatrical  managers,  many  of  whom 
have  graduated  from  their  ranks ;  criminal  lawyers,  demi- 
mondaines  and  men-about-town.  Their  little  world  is  most 
exclusive,  close-knit  by  general  suspicion  of  outsiders,  hence 
a  world  difficult  to  enter  unless  one  is  already  implicated  in 
some  offense  against  the  law.  Although  its  members  are 
everywhere :  one  may  be  your  bridge  partner  at  a  house  party 
of  the  newly  rich,  your  dancing  partner  at  an  upper-class 
Bohemian  gathering,  may  be  seen  nightly  at  your  favorite 
restaurant,  give  a  box  party  at  the  opening  night  of  a  new 
play.  .  .  . 

We  were  first  welcomed  into  this  world  on  board  our 
Atlantic  grayhound.  It  is  astonishing  how  many  desirable 
acquaintances  one  can  make  when  a  good-looking  girl  is  of 
your  party.  And  if  her  male  escorts  dress  for  dinner  and  carry 
their  dress  clothes  as  though  they  were  accustomed  to  their 
nightly  use,  even  the  suspicious  are  at  your  heels. 

So  I  found,  and  so  did  Brownie.  In  the  smoking-room 
and  lounge,  superior-looking  men  were  at  some  trouble  to 
make  our  acquaintance,  continuing  in  our  company,  by  hook 
or  crook,  until  Gracie  loomed  up;  practically  forcing  intro- 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  345 

ductions.  And  I  never  made  it  easy  for  them,  on  the  principle 
that  not  until  you  hang  out  the  S.  R.  O.  sign  can  you  persuade 
people  to  be  eager  to  enter  your  theater.  Thus  we  came  to 
know  a  newly  created  Canadian  peer,  the  son  of  a  Middle 
West  petroleum  king,  a  vapid  New  Yorker  or  two,  members 
of  the  best  clubs — some  half  a  dozen  more,  rich  and  inane. 
So  devoted  were  they  that  if  she  wished  to  be  alone  Gracie 
had  to  keep  to  her  cabin. 

On  the  fourth  day  I  got  my  passport  into  Subterranea. 
A  man  with  a  small  mustache  and  a  pleasant  smile  lay  in 
wait  for  Grade  outside  our  stateroom,  and  asked  me  to  excuse 
him  for  a  moment  while  he  spoke  to  my  "wife."  "I'm  a 
friend  of  Evelyn  Van  Buren,"  he  told  her.  A  few  minutes 
later  she  brought  him  into  the  stateroom.  Both  were  smiling. 
"He  thought  maybe  you  were  a — an  outsider,  Buck,"  she  said. 
"This" — she  lowered  her  voice — "is  Bob  Stanley,  but  he's 
on  the  passenger  list  as  H.  St.  John  Edgar.  He'll  split  it 
fifty  fifty  if  I  introduce  him  to  Lord  Hagworth  and  Mr. 
Todd" — the  peer  and  the  petroleum  heir — "and  I  was  telling 
him  some  of  the  others  were  worth  while,  too." 

"All  Gracie  has  to  do  is  organize  a  bridge  party,"  said  Bob 
Stanley.  "To-morrow  after  luncheon  is  best.  I  can  meet 
them  to-night.  I'll  drift  up  to  the  lounge  while  you're  taking 
coffee.  You  play,  Buck?"  So  was  I  admitted:  there  are  no 
"Misters"  and  "Misses"  in  Subterranea.  .  .  .  We  reached 
London  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  richer. 

But  that  was  only  the  beginning.  Brownie  and  I  were 
initiated  into  the  mysteries  of  "strippers"  and  "signals," 
Gracie  acting  always  as  the  decoy :  some  cleverer  card-manipu- 
lator always  willing  to  help  us  scientifically  to  pluck  our 
pigeon.  Working  without  her,  we  learned  how  to  operate 
"the  match,"  "the  lemon"  and  various  other  simple  but  profit- 
able games.  We  "declared  in"  other  friends  and  were  re- 
warded by  reciprocity.  Other  games,  too,  matters  of  person- 


346  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

ality  and  persuasiveness  rather  than  technicality.  Altogether, 
for  more  than  six  months,  we  frequented  the  most  expensive 
restaurants  of  London,  Paris  and  Monte  Carlo ;  were  fre- 
quenters of  Epsom,  Ascot,  Auteuil  and  other  racetracks:  in 
fact,  were  always  to  be  found  when  wealth  and  fashion  gath- 
ered publicly  and  always  seemed  the  peers  of  the  wealthiest 
and  the  most  fashionable.  Not  once  did  we  have  even  a 
warning  from  the  police. 

But,  with  the  Leopold  Wyndham  affair,  the  blow  fell. 
However,  I  was  not  there  to  meet  it :  I  was  on  my  way  back 
to  America.  It  had  not  taken  long  for  the  novelty  of  the  life 
to  wear  off;  and  now,  far  from  seeing  myself  the  master  of 
my  pigeons,  I  saw  I  was  really  quite  as  much  their  servants 
as  any  hired  women.  I  could  not  consult  my  own  personal 
tastes  at  all.  My  day  began  with  five  o'clock  tea,  and  ended, 
in  London,  when  they  turned  the  last  people  out  of  the  Cosmo 
supper  club;  in  Paris,  with  breakfast  at  the  Pre  Catelan,  the 
early  morning  sun  shining  on  my  rumpled  dress  clothes.  I 
must  conceal  all  my  real  emotions,  pretend  to  be  amused  by 
the  conversation  of  bores  if  they  had  money,  uproariously 
insist  on  buying  wine  for  rich  drunkards,  as  though  buying 
wine  was  my  favorite  indoor  sport,  laugh  heartily  at  degen- 
erate stories  that  should  have  been  warrant  enough  for  knock- 
ing their  narrators  down.  Say  what  you  will  against  the 
sons  of  Subterranea,  at  least  they  live  the  life  as  a  profession, 
and  are  vastly  superior  to  those  who  live  it  for  pleasure. 
Pleasure — God  save  the  mark.  What  worthless  sewer-minded 
beasts  those  rich  pleasure  seekers  are:  a  hundred  times  more 
criminal  than  we,  were  the  world  ruled  by  justice  instead  of 
by  law. 

Never  once  did  I  feel  any  compunctions  at  taking  their 
money — never  one  single  time.  When  I  think  how  many 
people  had  to  live  like  dogs  that  these  worms  could  spend 
fortunes  on  indecency,  I  really  believe  I  was  doing  a  worthy 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  347 

thing.  Worms,  graveyard  worms,  fat  and  sluggy  and  noisome, 
that's  what  they  were.  To  be  forced  to  endure  their  com- 
panionship was  worth  incalculable  sums:  it  was  they  who 
drove  me  back  to  honesty,  not  my  fellow  adventurers. 

It  was  just  about  the  time  that  the  worms'  companionship 
had  begun  to  get  intolerable  that  I  met  old  Tom  Kincaid, 
mayor  of  my  home  town  for  over  a  decade,  and  Miss  Mary, 
at  Hyeres,  where  I  had  gone  with  Brownie  for  a  few  days' 
vacation,  that  stretched  into  a  week  after  meeting  them.  They 
were  from  my  home  town;  I  had  been  a  reporter  on  old 
Tom's  paper.  It  does  one  good  to  meet  rich  men  like  him: 
the  thought  of  taking  his  money  occurred  to  us  no  more  than 
would  heaving  a  brick  through  a  cathedral  window.  There 
was  no  touch  of  the  sanctimonious  moralist  about  him :  yet 
he  had  done  more  to  make  my  birthplace  clean  than  ten  thou- 
sand vice-crusaders ;  for,  both  as  mayor  and  newspaper  editor, 
he  admitted  the  fundamental  instincts  of  men  and  urged  that 
it  was  better  they  should  be  safeguarded  only  against  excess 
than  to  deny  them  everything  and  have  unrestricted  secret 
horrors.  He  had  some  new  plans  for  civic  legislation,  had 
come  abroad  to  study  their  working  in  France  and  Germany, 
and  was  all  aglow  with  the  realization  of  their  practicality; 
talking  gleefully  of  how  he  would  carry  them  through  alike 
in  the  teeth  of  ignorant  prudes  and  political  grafters. 

"The  crux  of  the  difficulty  in  America,  suh,"  he  said  sadly, 
"is  that  grafters  don't  want  vice  restricted  and  made  to  pay 
taxes  to  relieve  the  po'ah  people.  They  want  the  taxes  paid 
to  them.  And  they  work  up  hysterical  refo'mahs  to  make 
ridiculous  laws  of  suppression.  The  refo'mahs  are  the  cats 
that  pull  the  chestnuts  out  of  the  fi'ah,  suh.  I  have  to  fight 
them  bo'ath." 

Disguising  my  inside  knowledge  of  vice  by  calling  myself 
a  criminologist,  I  gave  him  much  helpful  and  illuminating 
advice.  He  was  manifestly  sorry  to  see  me  go;  but  Gracie's 


348  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

insistent  telegrams  from  Paris  were  not  to  be  overlooked 
any  longer:  she  might  join  us.  On  the  train  back,  Brownie 
was  also  melancholy  and  depressed  but  for  a  different  reason. 

"What  a  girl!"  he  said.  He  had  been  allowed  to  escort 
Miss  Mary  about  while  her  father  and  I  talked  sociology  and 
reform.  "It  makes  a  man  realize  how  low  he  is  to  meet  a 
girl  like  that.  Why,  I'm  not  fit  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  skirt !" 
(Oh,  yes!  Brownie  was  one  of  those  sentimentalists  who 
talked  that  way.)  "I'm  not  fit  to  be  on  the  same  street  with 
her.  My  God,  Buck,"  he  burst  out,  tears  in  his  eyes,  "why 
couldn't  I  have  married  a  girl  like  that  in  Warrenton?  But 
it's  too  late  now,  too  late — " 

"Why?"  I  reasoned,  sensibly.  "You  have  never  been  ar- 
rested, much  less  convicted.  You  have  some  money — enough 
to  last  you  a  year  if  you're  careful.  Why  don't  you  go  back 
on  the  same  boat  with  them — settle  in  Richmond?  Why, 
with  your  name — in  Virginia!  Old  Tom'll  find  some  way 
to  make  you  useful  and  help  support  your  wife."  Uncon- 
sciously, save  for  the  wife  part  of  it,  I  was  outlining  my  own 
desires;  convincing  myself  of  their  feasibility;  and  it  annoyed 
me  for  Brownie  to  shake  his  head  and  say  it  was  too  late: 
too  many  people  knew:  he  was  bound  to  be  recognized  some 
day  and  that  meant  disgrace  for  her,  too — it  wasn't  fair.  .  .  . 
Which  shows,  from  the  accepted  standpoint  of  morality — the 
sentimental  one — how  superior  Brownie  was  to  me;  as  you 
will  see. 

Gracie  had  called  us  back  to  Paris  for  a  grand  coup:  one 
whose  success  would  enable  us  to  quit  the  life  we  were  leading 
and  give  each  one  of  us  a  small  income  for  life — to  live  as 
we  liked.  I  had  planned  it  all  before  we  left  for  Hyeres, 
and  she  was  to  play  her  game  with  the  man  while  we  were 
away.  She  had  done  so;  but,  because  of  our  delay,  we  must 
follow  him  to  London  to  finish  it  off;  and  here  again  I  was 
to  blame  for  what  followed :  for  the  laws  of  England  are 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  349 

much  severer  against  this  particular  sort  of  blackmail  than 
are  the  laws  of  France;  where  hypocritical  respectability  does 
not  get  a  deal  of  sympathy.  And  Leopold  Wyndam,  a  South 
African  Jew  who  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  make  a  fortune 
by  trickery  on  the  Rand,  had  suspected  before  he  fled  and 
was  prepared  for  us;  although  this  I  did  not  know  when, 
the  night  before  the  trick  was  to  be  turned,  I  met  again,  quite 
by  accident,  old  Tom  Kincaid  and  Miss  Mary. 

I  was  dining  alone  at  the  Carlton  because  of  a  bitter  quar- 
rel with  Grade,  when  old  Tom  came  in.  He  was  taking  the 
boat  train  to  Liverpool  immediately  after  dinner,  and,  to  my 
utter  amazement,  he  blurted  out  his  astonishing  proposal  a 
minute  after  I  joined  them  for  coffee.  "I've  had  my  hands 
full  as  it  is,  boy,"  he  said;  "they'll  be  full'ah  now,  with  this 
fight  on,  and  I'm  not  so  strong  as  I  used  to  be.  I  doze  at 
my  desk  nights  when  I  should  be  getting  out  the  pa'peh. 
You've  grown  some,  I  reckon,  since  you  were  my  reportah. 
You  have  i-deahs  I  want  my  succesah  to  have.  I  reckon  I've 
got  to  die  some  time — " 

"Oh,  father!"  interrupted  Miss  Mary,  with  sudden  tears, 
"And  so,"  he  went  on  cheerfully,  "since  you  know  the  town 
and  it  knows  you  and  you  have  those  big  i-deahs,  I  want  you 
to  help  me  be  a  bettah  mayah  by  taking  the  Argus  off  my 
hands.  Editing  it,"  he  added  explanatorily;  then  wistfully: 
"I  tried  to  get  in  touch  with  you  in  Paris  and  then  here:  my 
agent's  still  hunting  you.  I  wanted  you  to  take  the  trip  back 
with  us,  so  by  the  time  you  landed  you'd  be  ready  to  begin. 
But,  of  course,  now — " 

I  thought  of  the  bitter  quarrel  with  Gracie — her  infernal 
causeless  jealousy  again;  thought  of  the  Wyndam  case  next 
day  and  the  possibility  of  failure  which  meant  night  after 
night  of  boredom  among  drunkards  and  fools  again,  with 
always  the  possibility  of  a  slip  and  the  legal  penalty. 

"An  hour  yet  to  catch  the  boat  train?"  I  asked.    "Pshaw, 


350  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Mr.   Mayor,  I'll  pack  a  few  things  and  meet  you  at  the 
station." 

VI 

PEOPLE  with  good  memories  for  what  they  read  in  news- 
papers will  remember  the  celebrated  Wyndam  blackmail. 
Brownie  got  three  years  for  it.  Gracie  was  acquitted  because 
Brownie,  who  without  realizing  the  consequences  must  have 
enjoyed  playing  the  desperado  before  all  London,  took  the 
entire  blame. 

My  disappearance,  the  fact  that  I  never  returned  to  the 
hotel  after  my  quarrel  with  Gracie  (I  bought  some  ready- 
made  things  for  traveling  instead)  no  doubt  inclined  both 
of  them  to  the  view  of  suicide,  especially  as  I  had  been  gloomy 
ever  since  Hyeres:  on  all  of  which  I  had  counted.  So,  if 
only  for  sentimental  reasons,  my  name  was  not  mentioned. 
Yet  it  was  all  my  idea,  my  details — all  mine.  Poor  Brownie, 
who  paid  the  penalty,  had  done  no  more  than  in  the  case  of 
the  Bibles  or  the  man  from  Chicago. 

...  I  can  realize  what  happened  after  his  three  years' 
"stretch."  He  was  the  sort  environment  shapes.  He  could 
not  seek  out  his  old  haunts  and  hold  up  his  head  an  equal 
again:  he  was  just  a  Dartmoor  convict,  one  of  many.  Drink- 
ing, then,  to  forget,  and,  when  hungry,  clumsy  crimes,  the 
assistant  of  such  bungling  lower-class  crooks  as  he  had  come 
to  know  in  prison.  ...  It  was  just  such  an  affair  down  there 
in  the  Southwest:  yeggmen,  a  village  post-office  safe,  and  a 
chance  shot  that  reached  a  pursuer.  The  others  had  been 
more  fleet  of  foot  than  poor  drunken  Brownie. 

This  "justice"!  A  child  psychologist  could  have  told  that 
politically  appointed  ignoramus  of  a  judge,  those  heavy-headed, 
low-browed,  half-witted  jurymen,  that  poor  Brownie  could 
never  shoot  anybody.  Moreover,  there  was  no  weapon  found, 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  351 

on  or  near  him.  "Justice"!!!  And  I,  who  taught  him  to  be 
what  he  was,  am  respected,  honored  and  deferred  to,  the 
husband  of  that  Miss  Mary  whom  poor  Brownie  was  much 
too  honorable  to  have  married  even  if  she  had  been  willing, 
the  heir  and  successor  of  "the  best  mayor  the  town  ever  had," 
a  power  for  good  in  my  community,  an  enemy  of  graft  and 
corruption.  But  they  hanged  poor  Brownie. 


III.  THE  EAGER  PREY 

If  he  wasn't  "there"  with  the  coin  to  play, 
He'd  make  a  talk  to  some  youth  blase 
And  mine  host  would  spread  for  the  eager  prey, 
And  give  him  the  steer-per-cent. 

Ballad  of  Blanding. 

ir  j  jHE  reason  why  all  people,  even  the  most  fastidious, 
i  love  melodrama  is  because  Nature  herself  is  mclo- 
-^  dramatic — although  one  seldom  catches  her  at  it. 
Her  plots  are  too  finely  drawn  out  -for  the  average  eye  to 
connect  incidents  that  seem  totally  unconnected.  Hence,  much 
talk  of  an  universe  without  a  purpose — on  its  face  contra- 
dictory, the  one  huge  basic  fact  upon  -which  all  philosophies 
and  religions  are  built  being  that  of  the  planetary  system  re- 
volving steadily  about  the  sun. 

Occasionally,  by  some  lucky  accident,  all  the  facts  in  cer- 
tain cases  become  known;  then  we  are  privileged  to  see  how 
petty  are  human-made  plots  compared  to  one  of  Nature's. 
Such  an  one  is  the  basis  of  the  history  of  Dyke  Sturtevant 
and  Milly  M alone ;  and  were  we  actuated  by  purely  mercenary 
motives,  we  would  make  it  into  a  melodrama  one  week  of 
whose  royalties  would  yield  more  than  any  magazine  could 
afford  to  pay  for  this  story. 


MILLY  MALONE  had  been  on  Broadway  a  very  short  time 
before  Dyke  Sturtevant  saw  and  admired  her.     Many  times 

352 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  353 

had  the  house-manager  sought  her  with  news  of  the  spoken 
admiration  of  young  Mr.  This  and  old  Mr.  That;  but  Milly 
had  fallen  into  a  habit  of  saying  "No,"  and  continued,  though 
she  really  yearned  for  the  brilliantly  lighted  supper-places, 
the  taxicabs,  and  the  cabaret  dances  that  colored  her  com- 
panion's stories.  Of  late  there  has  been  much  rubbish  written 
about  stage-girls  having  no  more  temptations  than  others: 
yet  to  any  metropolitan  theater  during  the  run  of  a  successful 
"girl"  show  gravitate  the  rich  idlers  from  all  cities — first,  be- 
cause the  primitive  entertainment  there  afforded  is  best  suited 
their  mental  incapacities,  second,  because  it  is  part  of  their 
system  to  have,  just  as  they  have  expensive  polo-ponies  for 
daylight  amusement,  expensive  females  for  nocturnal  supper- 
parties — and  many  were  quite  willing  that  Milly  should  be 
expensive. 

Milly,  rejecting  this  generosity,  gained  a  growing  unpopu- 
larity among  her  sisters  of  the  dressing-room.  But,  observing 
her  running  for  a  street-car  in  the  rain,  or  in  freezing  weather 
muffling  up  her  thin,  girlish  neck  with  a  cheap  fur  stole  when 
proffered  taxicabs  offered  luxurious  protection,  the  "Johns," 
though  apt  to  call  her  a  qualified  lunatic,  respected  her  pluck 
and  told  others  to  disprove  coarse  generalities  circulated  about 
the  chorus.  Among  those  who  thus  heard  of  Milly  was  Dyke 
Sturtevant;  and,  hearing,  he  laughed  loudly: 

"Pooh  and  pish!  Likewise  tush!"  said  Dyke.  "Also, 
Bah!"  The  other  insisted  that  he  was  quoting  personal  ex- 
perience: had  he  not  so  proffered,  on  a  snowy  night,  too. 
Holmes  had  been  along.  There  had  been  Anthony  and  Bark- 
wynd  and  Stetson,  also,  and  others :  why,  it  was  notorious. 

Dyke  continued  to  deride.  "Coarse  work,"  he  explained. 
"Bet  me  I  won't  have  her  out  to  dinner  in  a  week  ?" 

"It's  like  finding  money,"  returned  his  fellow-clubman. 
So  the  curtain  rose  on  Act  II  of  the  life  of  Mr.  Sturtevant. 


354  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


II 

BUT  we  are  hardly  concerned  with  the  mechanics  of  the 
plot — rather,  to  show  what  went  on  behind  the  scenes ;  there- 
fore, we  must  transfer  our  attention  to  Blanding,  who  was 
to  some  extent  the  master-mechanic.  Blanding  was  as 
well-known  to  Fifth  Avenue  as  to  Broadway.  He  main- 
tained membership  in  a  semi-exclusive  club,  and  was  one  of 
those  persons  whom  the  vague  description  of  "little  brothers 
of  the  rich"  seems  to  suit.  Yet  show-girls  instinctively  re- 
garded him  as  one  of  themselves  and  made  no  attempt  to 
extort  money  from  him  by  fictitious  stories,  or  otherwise. 
"He's  a  wise  one,"  one  often  whispered  to  another,  as  a 
signal  she,  too,  might  drop  the  wearisome  task  of  holding  an 
unnatural  pose.  Touts  never  offered  him  "stable-tips":  there 
was  never  any  eagerness  shown  by  professional  gamblers  for 
him  to  enter  a  game.  Those  "on  the  make"  looked  elsewhere ; 
there  was  a  shrewd  suspicion  among  them  that  despite  his 
air  of  London  assurance,  Cork  Street  clothes,  and  Harvard 
accent,  he  was  like  themselves. 

Some  even  knew  the  truth  about  Blanding,  but  so  far 
apart  are  the  worlds  of  Broadway  and  the  Avenue,  so  well 
sustained  was  the  principle  of  "never  wising-up  a  sucker," 
that  no  whisper  of  Blanding's  connection  with  Barney  Bond's 
gambling-house  was  ever  wafted  east  of  Sixth  Avenue.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  Blanding  owned  a  half-interest  in  this  house, 
where  none  was  admitted  unless  of  the  sort  that  wears  dress 
clothes  more  than  occasionally.  Blanding  had  supplied  most 
of  the  patrons  as  well  as  most  of  the  original  investment. 

Ever  since  Dyke  Sturtevant  had  inherited  the  fortune 
of  his  uncle,  head  of  the  banking-house  of  the  same  name, 
Blanding's  eye  had  been  upon  him;  but  for  some  reason — 
probably  because  Dyke  had  been  kept  on  short  commons  dur- 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  355 

ing  his  school  and  university  years — he  had  shown  no  chance 
of  profiting  so  expensive  a  place  as  Barney's ;  twice  visiting  it, 
as  he  had  visited  others,  he  had  played  with  ten  and  twenty- 
dollar  chips  only,  yawned  after  a  brief  space,  and  departed. 
Yet  Blanding  knew  the  instinct  must  be  within  him — Dyke's 
father  had  plunged  on  unlisted  securities  as  would  no  man 
not  crazy  with  belief  in  his  luck.  It  is  doubtful  if  Blanding 
would  have  had  the  cruelty  to  awaken  an  instinct  so  terrible 
had  not  Dyke  run  amuck  along  the  Nightless  Lane,  ever  since 
his  grandfather  died,  showing  an  utter  disregard  for  the 
harm  he  did  others.  Subconsciously  at  least,  this  gave  Bland- 
ing an  excuse  to  treat  him  as  an  enemy.  But  it  was  not  until 
Sturtevant  came  to  be  seen  about  with  Milly  Malone  that 
Blanding  saw  a  chance  worth  acting  upon. 

Blanding  used  Sturtevant's  trick  to  meet  Milly,  giving  not 
a  supper,  but  a  "tea"  at  his  apartments,  and  bidding  some 
girls  to  bring  Milly  on  pain  of  his  displeasure.  But  Milly, 
having  broken  her  rule  once,  was  not  difficult  to  persuade — 
particularly,  as  it  was  Blanding,  whose  praises  all  chanted. 
He  was  never  "fresh";  you  must  make  advances  if  any  were 
to  be  made ;  and,  to  those  who  know  women,  it  will  not  seem 
strange  when  we  say  that  this  was  a  far  more  effectual  way 
to  win  them  than  the  usual  one.  And  Milly  fell  under  his 
spell  as  other  girls  had  done — not  that  she  loved  him,  but, 
somehow,  she  trusted  him;  and  he  had  no  such  difficulty  in 
arranging  a  future  tete-a-tete,  as  had  Sturtevant  several  weeks 
previous.  Blanding's  was  for  the  following  afternoon  at  an 
hotel  where  he  would  be  likely  to  encounter  neither  his 
acquaintances  of  the  "smart"  world  nor  the  other;  conse- 
quently, without  interruptions,  he  was  able,  by  exerting  him- 
self to  establish  what  was  almost  a  friendship — which  per- 
mitted him,  before  dark,  to  approach  the  subject  of  Dyke 
Sturtevant. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  Milly,"  said  Blanding,  "but  if  I  am 


356  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

wrong,  correct  me.  You  came  here  to-day  in  a  taxicab  and 
it's  waiting  for  you:  in  fact,  it's  always  waiting.  It  takes  you 
shopping  to  places  where  you  have  charge-accounts  and  can 
order  any  amount  of  clothes.  It  takes  you  to  restaurants 
where  you  can  entertain  your  girl  friends  at  tea  or  dinner — 
also  charge-accounts.  And  you  have  been  invited  to  move 
from  your  boarding-house  to  a  charming  apartment.  When 
it  grows  too  warm  here,  an  European  trip  for  yourself  and 
maid." 

Milly  was  chalky  white.  "How  dare  you?"  she  gasped. 
"Come,"  said  Blanding,  kindly.  "I'm  talking  to  you  like  a 
father."  She  averted  her  eyes.  "How  could  he  tell  anybody. 
And  he  was  so  decent,  so  kind,  never  saying  anything  that 
anybody  couldn't  respect  him  for." 

"You  do  him  an  injustice,"  said  Blanding,  softly.  "He 
never  told  anybody." 

"Oh,  he  must  have,"  she  declared  passionately.  "You 
couldn't  have  known  unless.  But  it  was  just  because  he  had 
more  money  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with." 

"I  know,"  smiled  Blanding.  "He  knew  you  were  a  good 
girl  and  wanted  to  show  you  there  were  some  good  men  left. 
It  was  because  you  were  good  that  he  was  attracted  to  you." 
(And,  God  forgive  him,  that  was  true  enough!)  "Somehow, 
you  imagined  he  wasn't  the  kind  to  fall  in  love  quickly.  But 
if  you  tried  to  be  the  kind  of  girl  he  could  love,  why — he 
didn't  exactly  say  he'd  marry  you,  but — that  was  what  you 
thought,  wasn't  it  ?" 

For  answer,  the  girl  bent  over,  her  face  meeting  her  hand- 
kerchief, for  which  she  had  fumbled.  "Don't,  my  dear  child," 
protested  Blanding.  "People  will  think  I'm  abusing  you. 
How  did  I  know?  Because  it's  his  system.  Want  me  to 
show  you  ?" 

They  were  driven  to  another  restaurant,  from  entering 
which  she  shrank  instinctively.  "It's  only  for  a  moment," 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  357 

Blanding  assured  her.  "And  it's  necessary."  Within  was  a 
painted  world  where,  before  nightfall,  were  already  the  drunk 
and  disorderly.  Outside  was  the  fading  glory  of  a  winter's 
afternoon,  but  within,  Nature  was  allowed  to  play  no  tricks 
with  complexions,  the  lights  matching  them.  Entering  it  was 
as  if  to  step  into  a  Roman  hell. 

At  tables  sat  women  of  small  fascination,  striving  their 
best  for  a  semblance  of  gaiety,  and  for  the  most  part,  failing 
even  to  produce  a  passable  counterfeit.  Among  them  was 
one  as  vivid  as  the  poppies  on  her  hat;  why  was  she  there? 
A  closer  glance  revealed  that  her  charm  was  almost  entirely 
due  to  cosmetics,  although  she  had  the  small  head  of  the 
Golden  Age  Greek.  Her  eyes  had  once  been  compared  by 
a  poet  to  woodland  pools  in  the  sedge  with  starlight  shining 
through;  now  the  pools  had  dried  and  the  starlight  was  gone. 
Her  little  Grecian  nose  twitched  like  the  beak  of  a  bird  of 
prey.  The  expert  would  have  told  you  she  had  taken  a  larger 
dose  than  usual  of  her  habitual  heroin — which,  equally  with 
deadening  physical  pain  and  thoughts  of  the  past,  provides 
rapid  transit  to  eternity. 

"That's  why  we  came,"  said  Blanding.  "That  girl!  Six 
years  since  Sturtevant  met  her.  A  brainless  little  flapper, 
but  a  beauty.  Went  home  every  night;  couldn't  bribe  her 
to  take  a  drink:  'I  guess  you  don't  know  a  lady  when  you 
see  one.'  'You  wouldn't  respect  me  if  I  smoked  a  cigarette' 
— that  kind.  Kept  'steady  company'  with  a  young  book- 
keeper. Had  their  Harlem  flat  all  picked  out  and  went  on 
trips  to  the  furniture-houses.  But,  meanwhile,  other  girls  got 
more  elegant  elevator  apartments  on  the  'Drive'  and  in  the 
'seventies.'  Silk  curtains  and  Oriental  rugs  and  Louis  Quinze 
furniture  and  dainty  damask,  and  so  on,  and  they  made  her 
mighty  discontented  with  what  instalment-houses  sell  to  the 
righteous.  Hated  to  feel  her  rough  pony-skin  coat,  too,  after 
touching  other  girls'  seals  or  chincillas.  Still,  she'd  have  gone 


S58  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

through  if  Sturtevant  hadn't  come  along.  He  gave  her  every- 
thing he's  given  you.  Then — know  what  his  game  is  ?" 

Milly  shook  her  head  dumbly,  although,  instinctively,  she 
knew  well  enough.  She  had  been  unable  to  remove  her  eyes 
from  the  girl  whose  history  she  was  hearing:  a  history  that 
might  have  been  her  own. 

"Why,  he  tells  you  that  he's  married:  unhappy,  of  course, 
wife  a  Catholic,  and,  although  since  he's  met  you,  he's  begged 
for  a  divorce,  nothing  doing.  So  he  is  helpless,  having  done 
all  in  honor  that  anybody  could.  See  the  point  ?  He's  lonely, 
must  have  love.  You're  his  true  wife  before  high  heaven 
— what  means  the  mumbling  of  a  priest?  Well,  all  that's  well 
enough  for  sensible  women  who  are  able  to  see  through  a 
man's  words  into  his  mind  and  know  that  he  really  loves  them 
—'-but  he's  a  connoisseur  in  women  as  others  are  in  wines. 
And  the  sort  of  girls  he  selects  are  the  sort  that,  respectability 
gone,  all's  gone:  that's  the  religious  temperament — your 
temperament,  too,  I  think." 

He  waved  the  waiter  away,  indicating  their  untouched 
liqueurs.  "Some  girls  really  get  to  care  for  him — why 
wouldn't  they?  He's  handsome,  clever  talker,  fairy  prince 
with  a  magic  wand — and  they  fall  for  the  love  talk.  But, 
even  without  love,  they  fall  anyway.  Why?  Because  he 
never  plays  his  hand  until  the  girl  can't  go  back  to  boarding- 
house  grub,  street-cars,  and  dingy  furnished  rooms.  So,  when 
he  says,  'Good-bye,  forever;  I  am  going  to  Africa  to  hunt 
lions,  or  India  to  hunt  tigers;  I  hope  one  of  them  gets  me,' 
— then  she  sees  plainly  that  this  means  giving  up  apartment, 
maid,  taxicab,  charge-accounts.  For — observe  this  particu- 
larly— he  has  never  insulted  her  with  actual  money;  his 
jewelry  has  been  Lalique  stuff,  expensive,  as  art  nouveau,  but 
worthless  to  raise  money  on.  No  solitaires,  no  cash.  Do  you 
see  the  point,  now?" 

"I— I  think  I  do,"  said  Milly,  gasping.    "Let's  go."    She 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  359 

seemed  suddenly  to  choke  in  that  atmosphere,  heavy  with 
cheap  perfumes  and  dead  cigarettes;  where  the  other  girl 
sat  was  only  a  burning  mist.  .  .  . 

Blanding  told  the  driver  to  go  around  the  Park.  "So," 
he  went  on,  as  the  car  swung  away  from  the  curb,  "because 
she  can't  get  the  luxuries  he's  made  her  think  she  needs,  any 
other  way — she  tells  him  not  to  go.  But,  after  a  while,  his 
artistic  soul  wants  something  unexplored.  So  she  loses  the 
luxuries  anyway.  It's  only  a  question  of  months — maybe  a 
year;  and  though  she  has  a  few  more  clothes,  a  few  more 
toilet-trifles  in  gold,  she  needs  cash  just  as  much. 

"What  happens?  Another  man.  If  she's  a  sentimental 
idiot,  like  the  poppy  girl,  she  takes  to  drinking,  then  to  cocain, 
heroin,  or  morphine;  and  soon  she  loses  all  attraction  for 
the  Sturtevant  sort.  Then  she  hits  the  toboggan — and  that 
place  back  there's  not  the  bottom,  either." 

Milly  Malone  burst  into  violent  shivering  and  caught 
Blanding's  hand — then  into  wild  sobbing.  "There,  there,  little 
one:  I  understand,"  he  said  paternally,  patting  her  palm. 
"Thinking  how  you'll  hate  to  give  up  all  those  luxuries  your- 
self, even  after  a  few  weeks?  Well,  you  don't  have  to.  You 
don't  have  to." 

She  sat  upright,  tears  and  terrors  forgotten  in  amazement. 
"After  what  you've  told  me?" 

"I've  warned  you,"  returned  Blanding.  "So:  beat  his 
game — understand  ?" 

Apparently,  she  did  not.  "Well,  d'you  love  the  fellow?" 
asked  Blanding  sharply.  Apparently,  No  again.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "some  day  you  may  read  a  philosopher  named  Faber, 
who  says  God  sent  the  poor  as  eagles  to  strip  the  rich. 
Farther  back,  in  a  grand  old  Book  that  nobody  reads  any 
more  you  will  see  this  passage:  'Live  by  the  sword,  perish 
by  the  sword.'  The  trouble  with  the  poor  is  that  they're 
slaves  of  words.  Blackmail  for  instance.  It  never  seems  to 


360  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

occur  to  anybody  that  whoever  can  be  blackmailed  should 
have  been  blackballed — or  that  blackmailers  only  exact  what 
the  man  ought  to  have  paid  society.  Cursed  with  sentimental- 
ism,  too,  the  poor  are;  and  sentimentalism  is  the  greatest 
enemy  of  reform.  So,  being  poor,  you're  a  slave  of  words 
and  sentimental,  so  I  suppose  you  won't  turn  Sturtevant's 
swords  against  him." 

So  scornful  was  he  that  Milly,  more  from  a  wish  to  retain 
his  respect  than  anything  else — and  not  half  understanding 
— hastened  to  assure  him  that  she  would.  "Only  what  can 
I  do?"  she  asked  fretfully.  "Me?" 

"I'd  tell  you  if  I  thought  I  wasn't  wasting  my  time,"  said 
Elanding. 

A  picture  of  the  poppy  girl  crossed  her  vision.  "You  won't 
be  wasting  it,"  said  she,  snapping  her  sharp  little  teeth  to- 
gether. 

On  his  explanation,  the  curtain  fell  upon  Act  II  of  the 
life  of  Dyke  Sturtevant. 


Ill 

ONE  of  Nature's  ironies  is  to  punish  us  through  our  good 
emotions,  not  our  evil  ones.  One  intent  on  evil  is  careful, 
alert,  watchful;  and,  anticipating  harm,  it  seldom  befalls  him. 
But,  intent  on  good,  following  a  heart  instead  of  a  head,  the 
heart  is  easily  betrayed  because  one  wants  it  to  be.  Strephon 
does  not  wish  to  be  told  that  Amaryllis  hates  him,  nor  an 
infatuated  husband  his  wife;  both  prefer  to  believe  that  to 
them  alone  is  given  some  astral  knowledge  not  possible  to 
material  minds.  So  Milly  might  have  played  her  game  with 
half  her  skill;  for  Nature,  making  a  long  arm,  had  caught 
up  Master  Sturtevant,  and  he  was  in  love  at  last.  He  had 
gone  into  Milly's  case  on  a  bet,  true,  but  before  seeing  her; 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  861 

•< 
and  afterward,   he  had   followed   his  usual  system  because 

where  was  there  a  better  one?  Every  effect  in  it  had  been 
planned  to  suggest  sincerity;  and  now  he  was  in  the  peculiar 
position  of  a  playwright  who  finds  himself  living  a  situation 
of  his  own  play  and  using  his  careful  dramatic  phrasing  be- 
cause no  natural  dialogue  half  so  good  suggests  itself. 

A  curious  situation  indeed.  Often  words  leaped  to  his 
lips,  quite  sincerely,  but  he  blushed  and  abandoned  them,  re- 
membering their  unhallowed  use  in  the  past.  Like  all  men 
who  help  to  make  the  world  worse,  he  insisted  strongly  that 
no  hint  of  evil  be  associated  with  this  one  real  affair.  He 
resumed  boyish  idealism  and  chivalry  toward  women;  for 
truly  he  had  possessed  both.  The  worst  villain  is  most  fre- 
quently but  a  betrayed  idealist.  Because  the  women  of  his 
early  days  had  been  other  than  of  an  Arthurian  idyl.  Sturte- 
vant  had  gone  to  a  Byronic  extreme.  Some  men  have  minds 
so  very  juvenile  that  they  can  be  only  Sir  Galahads  or  Don 
Juans — both  the  conceptions  of  schoolboys.  He  had  never 
really  cared  for  Don  J nanism — had  been  cynically  daring 
women  to  live  up  to  his  ideal.  If  the  girl  of  the  poppies  or 
any  of  the  others  had  brought  out  the  better  part  of  him, 
he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  cut  adrift.  Bringing  out  his 
worst,  they  gave  him  an  excuse,  and,  finally  tired,  not  so  much 
of  them  tas  of  himself  and  his  surroundings,  he  would  go 
a-questing  elsewhere.  Don  Juan  sought  a  Grail  as  truly  as 
Galahad — his  from  which  to  quaff  a  nectar  of  ideal  love. 
Sturtevant  had  defended  his  system  by  telling  himself  such 
girls  were  bound  to  go  that  way  some  time. 

But  he  told  himself  no  such  tales  of  Milly.  He  drifted 
along,  much  in  her  company,  wishing  he  could  bear  her  away 
from  the  iniquitous  atmosphere  of  musical  comedy  and  of 
Broadway.  With  his  consent,  she  was  never  permitted  on 
the  Nightless  Lane  except  for  the  theater.  When  they  dined 
or  supped  he  took  her  to  Canary's  or  the  St.  Gothard,  de- 


362  BIRDS  OF  TREY 

fiantly  meeting  the  eyes  of  his  Avenue  friends  and  inviting 
their  criticism. 

The  attitude  made  it  difficult  to  suggest  anything  so  alien 
as  a  visit  to  a  roulette-table.  But  Blanding  managed  it. 
Protesting,  Sturtevant  had  secured  a  table  at  Sydenham's  for 
the  celebrated  Broadway  New  Year  festivities.  Milly  had 
opened  her  ingenuous  eyes  wide  when  asking.  "I've  never 
seen  it,  fancy:  and  in  New  York  all  my  life  hearing  and 
reading  of  it !  I," — she  gave  him  a  smile,  the  effect  carefully 
calculated — "never  met  a  man  before  I'd  trust  to  take  me." 

She  spoke  to  him  always  with  clipped  precision,  never  a 
natural  phrase  escaping  her;  she  knew  the  speech  of  her 
childhood  was  not  to  be  trusted;  and  having  made  a  certain 
impression,  she  wished  to  retain  it — even  going  so  far  as  to 
tell  him  of  her  convent-school  education,  her  father  having 
been  a  man  of  some  position  who  had  failed  in  business,  ft 
had  never  occurred  to  her  to  deceive  anyone  as  to  this  before, 
and  to  keep  up  the  illusion  made  her  uncomfortable  in  his 
presence,  desirous  of  being  in  it  just  as  little  as  possible — 
something  that  often  happens  between  such  girls  and  such 
men  and  helps  destroy  any  possibility  of  them  ever  under- 
standing one  another.  As  often  as  she  could  manage  it, 
another  girl  accompanied  them,  and  the  two  would  have  much 
fun  afterwards  between  munches  of  his  expensive  candy, 
chuckling  over  the  way  he  had  swallowed  her  lies. 

Ethel  accompanied  them  on  this  New  Year's  night,  and 
that  was  part  of  Blanding's  plot;  for,  at  the  height  of  the 
festivities,  she  recognized  Blanding  himself  (Milly  was  not 
supposed  to  know  him),  apparently  searching  for  some  one. 
She  sent  over  a  waiter  and  made  a  point  of  his  joining  them. 
He  was  looking  for  certain  people,  it  appeared:  some  men 
and  women  Sturtevant  knew.  "Polly  Van  Reypen  wanted, 
particularly,  to  go  out  to  that  new  roulette-place,"  Blanding 
told  them,  "and  you  have  to  have  somebody  with  you  the 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  363 

•< 

people  there  know.  Polly  made  such  a  bother  about  it,  I  cut 
another  party  and  here  she's  gone.  Oh,  well" — he  looked  at 
his  watch — "I  didn't  realize  how  late  it  was." 

"A  roulette-salon — for  women?"  said  Ethel,  clapping  her 
hands.  She  was  an  experienced  one,  was  Ethel,  and  although 
her  childish  ways  and  baby  face  did  not  lay  her  open  to  any 
such  suspicion,  she  was  on  Blanding's  permanent  pay-roll. 
He  had  sent  her  to  Milly.  "Goody !  goody !  goody !"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Take  me,  Mr.  Blanding — please."  Blanding 
laughed  tolerantly.  "These  were  rich  women,  child,"  he  said. 
"I  wouldn't  lead  anybody  else  into  temptation,  even  by  re- 
quest." Ethel's  face  grew  doleful.  "Oh !  it  would  have  been 
such  fun,  wouldn't  it,  Milly?  Just  like  the  stories  you  read 
of  Monte  Carlo.  I  never  knew  there  was  a  place  women 
could  go  to." 

Milly's  face  brightened.  She  had  been  sulking,  purpose- 
fully, telling  Sturtevant  what  a  disappointment  the  celebra- 
tion had  been.  "Let's  go,  Mr.  Sturtevant,"  she  said,  laying 
a  little  paw  of  a  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  dress-coat.  "Please 
— maybe  we'd  have  some  fun,  there."  He  was  thrilled  by 
her  touch.  "On  one  condition,"  he  returned  in  a  low  tone, 
" — that,  for  the  last  time,  you  call  me  Mr.  Sturtevant.  How 
often  have  I  asked  you?" 

"Dyke,"  she  amended,  making  a  pretty  little  mouth. 

He  turned  to  Blanding  to  be  assured  of  the  sort  of  people 
who  went  there.  "Not — this  sort,"  returned  Blanding,  con- 
temptuously, nodding  toward  a  table  surrounded  by  celebrities 
of  the  cabarets.  "It's  hard  to  get  into — like  a  good  club, 
almost.  Laura  Allen  took  me  there."  The  second  prominent 
young  matron's  name  was  sufficient  to  convince  Sturtevant 
that  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  would  not  clash  with  that 
of  his  ideal.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  had  been  no  such 
place  until  Blanding's  first  serious  conversation  with  Milly. 
Then  Barney  Bond  had  pressed  into  additional  service  the 


364  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

house  next  door,  heretofore  used  only  for  millionaires'  private 
poker-parties.  Not  a  hundred  people  knew  this  sober-looking 
brownstone  dwelling  had  any  connection  with  the  equally 
sober-looking,  but  quite  notorious  one  next  door.  So  Bland- 
ing  had  Barney  move  in  a  roulette-table,  some  paintings, 
statuary  and  a  buffet,  and  after  Blanding  telephoned  that 
New  Year's  night  while  Sturtevant  was  paying  the  supper- 
check,  bright  lights  reflected  on  the  crystal  and  cut  glass, 
illuminated  the  green  cloth. 

Then  and  there  Milly  developed  the  gambling  habit — com- 
ing the  next  night,  every  night;  and,  since  ladies  were  pro- 
vided with  black  lace  masks  by  the  management,  and  the 
patronage  seemed  confined  to  those  desirous  of  hiding  their 
identities,  Sturtevant  had  no  great  objection  to  her  childish 
amusement  over  winning  small  sums.  For  she  seldom  lost — 
nor,  apparently,  did  the  other  masked  ladies  and  their  dress- 
coated  escorts,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  all  were  em- 
ployees of  Bond  and  Blanding,  on  the  pay-roll  as  "steerers" 
outside,  "shillabers"  within;  a  "steerer"  is  one  who  brings 
customers,  and  half  the  pretty  show-girls  with  "Avenue" 
acquaintances  are  that,  receiving  a  large  share  of  their  friends' 
losses.  Blanding  had  never  used  women  for  shillabers  before; 
but  many  of  his  male  steerers  had  been  so  employed  next 
door,  betting  large  sums  and  always  winning  larger  ones,  to 
encourage  losers  disgusted  with  luck,  thus  reviving  hope  and 
renewing  play.  Men  and  women  alike  were  shillabers  here 
in  the  women's  room;  Ethel  herself,  her  coiffure  and  gown 
new,  often  stood,  later,  alongside  Sturtevant,  who  did  not 
know  her  behind  her  lace  mask.  He  imagined  every  one 
of  these  silent  winning  players  to  have  names  in  the  "Social 
Register." 

In  such  an  electric  atmosphere  of  luck,  then,  it  was  not 
strange  that  Sturtevant  soon  took  a  hand,  and  he  was  the 
only  one  who  cost  the  firm  of  Bond  and  Blanding  anything 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  365 

in  winnings — all  the  rest  being  handed  back  before  the  players 
left  the  house.  But  soon  Sturtevant,  flushed  with  luck  and 
thoroughly  surrendering  himself  to  the  intoxication  of  chance, 
laid  down  his  accumulations  on  a  single  number:  his  first 
real  bet.  The  croupier  with  his  long-handled  wooden  rake 
pushed  back  all  but  one  bill.  "The  maximum  is  ten  dollars 
en  plan,"  he  said  mildly.  He  spun.  "Quinze,  noir,  impair  ei 
passe,"  he  said,  designating  number,  color,  and  so  forth,  bets 
on  which  were  to  be  paid,  among  them  Sturtevant's.  The 
whole  game  had  been  played  to  reach  this  point. 

Sturtevant  gathered  in  his  winnings,  grumbling  at  the 
amount :  with  his  luck  he  would  have  won  thousands.  "What 
a  piker's  game,"  he  said  in  disgust.  The  croupier  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "For  men,  maybe,"  he  said,  "not  for  ladies. 
The  house  next  door  may  please  you  better." 

The  gambling  spirit  is  a  curious  thing.  It  possesses  one 
not  entirely  for  gain — else  why  do  those  have  it  who  hire 
clerks  to  clip  coupons?  It  is  a  sort  of  religion  rather,  a 
subconscious  belief  that  one  has  established  communication 
with  the  spirit-world — has  been  especially  favored  with 
prophetic  instinct,  which,  persistently  followed,  will  triumph- 
antly defeat  materialism  and  the  statistics  regarding  the 
laws  of  chance.  And  to  be  under  this  spell  is  to  disregard 
all  but  blind  belief.  Gambling  is  the  apotheosis  of  faith:  no 
Fox's  martyr  could  be  more  of  a  fanatic  than  a  gambler. 
Once  aroused,  Blanding  knew  the  rest  was  easy.  And  finally, 
it  was  aroused,  Sturtevant  asked  Milly  to  wait,  and  plunged 
to  the  street  and  next  door. 

The  game,  which  had  broken  up  immediately  after  Dyke's 
departure,  had  been  abandoned  by  the  yawning  shillabers  long 
before  he  returned.  Milly  had  gone  home.  Stricken  with 
remorse  for  his  discourtesy,  he  realized  it  was  dawn:  he  had 
played  five  hours  and  lost  twenty-five  thousand  dollars. 

Never  mind;  he  would  get  it  all  back  to-morrow.     That 


B66  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

was  only  his  punishment  because  he  hadn't  gone  next  door 
sooner,  while  Luck  was  with  him:  why,  if  he  had  only  been 
in  Barney  Bond's,  the  croupier  would  not  have  pushed  away 
those  three  hundred  odd  dollars  and  he  would  have  won, 
instead  of  three  sixty,  over  eleven  thousand.  If  man  could 
make  for  his  own  inconsistency  half  the  excuses  he  makes 
for  Luck's,  he  would  have  no  conscience. 

After  that  it  was  too  pitifully  easy;  but  neither  Blanding 
nor  Milly  got  as  much  of  the  loot  as  Blanding  had  expected. 
Sturtevant  went  from  house  to  house — was  soon  a  familiar 
in  them  all.  Finally,  to  recoup,  he  went  after  bigger  gambles 
in  Wall  Street.  Then  he  evolved  a  system:  an  absolutely 
logical  and  flawless  system  before  which  all  the  Laws  of 
Chance  must  fall  like  Jericho's  walls.  At  this  point  his  history 
ceases  to  be  interesting. 


IV 

IN  a  block  where  gambling-houses  abound  is  the  rear 
entrance  of  Sydenham's,  an  inconspicuous  door  on  a  dark 
street  which  does  not  suggest  even  a  remote  connection  with 
the  brightly  lighted  restaurant  on  Broadway — a  theory  evi- 
dently held  by  Dyke  Sturtevant,  too,  on  his  first  visit  by  the 
back  way.  It  opens  on  a  dimly  lighted  hall  where,  faintly, 
can  be  heard  the  music  and  gayety  of  the  Broadway  side, 
the  ragtime  from  private  dining-rooms,  mingled  with  the 
kitchen's  clatter.  Dyke  made  his  way  to  the  stairs ;  and  there, 
under  a  bracket  light,  he  was  recognized  and  halted  at  the 
door  of  an  upstairs  room. 

"You  can't  go  in  there,  sir,"  said  a  waiter-captain  just 
coming  out. 

Sturtevant  smiled  at  the  tribute  to  his  impeccable  dress- 
clothes,  shining  hat  and  shoes.  "Why  not?"  he  asked. 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  367 

A  man,  in  similar  attire  to  his,  passed  swiftly  out  of  the 
room.  "He,  too  ?"  asked  Dyke,  astounded.  The  man  belonged 
to  at  least  two  clubs.  "If  he's  at  this,"  he  said  more  to 
himself  than  to  the  waiter,  "I  needn't  be  ashamed."  He 
touched  the  waiter's  arm :  "Why  did  you  stop  me  from  going 
in  there?" 

The  waiter  regarded  him  uneasily.  "I  thought  p'raps 
somebody  might  'ave  blown  the  gaff — that  you  came  to  raise 
a  row."  His  tone  had  ceased  to  be  respectful,  became  com- 
rade-like. "Well,  Mr.  Sturtevant,  as  you  remarked,  there's 
just  as  good  in  there  and  will  be.  We  all  'as  ups  and  downs, 
sir."  He  opened  the  door  as  one  man  to  another.  Sturtevant 
passed  in. 

Here  was  only  one  waiter  and  he  was  dozing.  Mostly,  the 
patrons — though  quite  as  expensively  dressed  as  any  below 
— were  eating  supper  as  people  one  of  whose  regular  meals 
is  at  this  hour.  There  was  very  little  drinking;  on  most 
tables  stood  bottles  of  vichy  or  mineral  waters.  The  air  of 
those  who  supped  was  not  unlike  that  of  business- folk  at 
lunch.  Men  and  women  seemed  acquaintances  of  long-stand- 
ing, all  appearances  of  coquetry  abandoned.  Some  men  even 
read  the  papers ;  others  wrote  letters.  It  was  not  unlike  any 
ordinary  European  cafe — not  the  sort  foreigners  frequent, 
but  the  European's  club  where  women  are  permitted  only  if 
they  do  not  interfere.  There  was  even  a  couple  playing  (not 
dominoes,  'tis  true;  one  can't  have  everything)  double-Can- 
field. 

But  Sturtevant  saw  none  of  these  things — only  Milly 
Malone  in  a  secluded  corner,  finishing  supper  and  talking  to 
Ethel  and  to  a  man  Sturtevant  had  often  seen  along  Broad- 
way. He  stopped  suddenly  as  one  who  has  received  a  blinding 
blow.  When  he  recovered,  the  psychic  force  of  his  shock 
had  communicated  itself  to  Milly  and  she  stared  in  terrified 


368  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

dismay.  Sturtevant  continued,  mechanically,  as  one  who  is 
pushed  or  led,  and  sank  into  a  chair  opposite  her. 

"Now,  Dyke,"  said  Ethel  calmly,  "don't  make  a  scene. 
Who  let  you  in  here?  Who  told  you?  Where've  you  been 
for  the  past  six  months  ?"  She  strove  to  make  her  tone  casual. 
The  other  man  said  something  unimportant  about  the  queer 
results  from  the  Jaurez  racetrack,  that  day.  Milly  tried  to 
speak  once,  twice,  then  gave  it  up.  It  was  almost  as  difficult 
for  Sturtevant  to  find  his  voice,  and  when  he  did  it  was 
hardly  his  own,  but  a  queer,  choking  one  nobody  had  ever 
heard  before : 

"To  answer  your  questions  chronologically,  Ethel.  First: 
I  let  myself  in.  Second,  Harvey  Gold  sent  me.  Third,  I've 
been  in  a  sanitarium." 

The  last  was  not  surprising  to  Ethel.  But  that  Harvey 
Gold,  proprietor  of  another  place  like  Barney  Bond's,  should 
have  sent  this  pigeon  he  had  so  often  plucked  here,  in  the 
midst  of  his  pluckers!  Sturtevant  understood  her  bewilder- 
ment : 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  laughing  harshly,  "I've  joined 
you.  I  tried  to  borrow  but  Gold  said  'earn  it.'  So  I  took 
him  a  nice  young  man  who  belongs  to  my  club  and  I'm  waiting 
here  until  Harvey  'phones  me  to  come  and  get  my — what-do- 
you-call-it — it's  my  first  experience,  you  see." 

"Steerer's  end?  Steer-per-cent ?"  suggested  the  other 
man,  smiling.  He  took  this  as  a  good  cue  to  leave  them, 
for  he  perceived  private  matters  were  brewing. 

Sturtevant  looked  at  Milly.     She  was  stony-white. 

"Still  at  it?"  he  asked  in  a  light  voice  that  was  very  ugly. 

"How  long  have  you  known?"  asked  Ethel,  white  also. 

"Known?"  returned  Sturtevant,  his  laugh  uglier  than  his 
voice.  "Known?  I  was  still  thinking  she  was  the  pearl  of 
purity  when  I  came  in  here:  it  was  losing  her  I  minded,  not 
my  money.  All  I've  gone  through  in  the  past  two  years  didn't 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  369 

hurt  as  much  as  the  last  two  minutes."  He  looked  at  Milly 
again.  "You!"  he  said.  "Just  think  of  it,  you!  Why,  I 
wanted  to  marry  you." 

"You  can  cut 'all  that  stuff  out,  Dyke,"  said  Ethel.  "She 
had  your  number  when  you  started — knew  all  about  that 
marriage-stuff  and  how  you  pulled  it  on  all  the  others.  This 
time,  you  lost.  So  be  a  game  sport  and  don't  whine.  You 
only  got  yours." 

"My  God,"  said  Sturtevant  hoarsely,  "look  at  me!  Why 
would  I  lie  now  when  I  haven't  got  a  chance.  I  tell  you  it 
was  on  the  square.  I  wanted  to  marry  her."  He  laughed 
harshly.  "Oh !  that's  the  funny  part  of  it :  She  was  giving 
her  money  to  those  harpies,  her  own  money.  She  could  have 
had  every  cent  I  owned.  Her  own  money!"  Something  in 
his  tone  carried  conviction.  Ethel  looked  at  Milly,  horror- 
stricken.  This  was  ghastly.  She  had  deliberately  robbed 
herself  of  a  fortune. 

"Well,  I  must  say,"  she  gasped,  catching  Milly's  hand, 
"isn't  life  horrible?  Oh,  Mil'!  And  I  helped  you.  Me!" 
It  seemed  to  her,  a  child  of  dire  poverty,  that  this  was  the 
most  terrible  tragedy  that  had  ever  happened.  Milly  might 
have  had  everything  her  heart  desired ;  and  here  she  was 
sitting  in  the  "steerers'  room"  at  Sydenham's. 

But — such  is  the  strange  psychology  of  the  feminine  mind 
— Milly  was  not  thinking  of  the  money  at  all.  She  was  re- 
membering the  many  times  Dyke  had  said  he  loved  her,  and 
how  she  had  forced  herself  to  remember  the  poppy  girl. 
Since  Dyke  had  explained,  a  few  moments  before,  the  brakes 
Blanding's  first  interview  had  applied  to  her  natural  emotions 
were  released,  and  now  she  recalled  Dyke's  tender  thought- 
fulness  for  her:  how,  motoring,  and  caught  in  a  chilly  wind 
one  day,  he  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  held  it,  despite  her 
protests,  about  her  thin-charmeuse-covered  shoulders.  The 
action,  the  thrill  of  his  strength  and  touch,  had  brought  a 


370  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

queer  tingling  sensation  that  she  had  choked  down.  Some- 
times when  he  had  sat,  silent,  she  remembered  an  almost 
uncontrollable  impulse  to  ruffle  his  sleekly  groomed  hair. 
Once,  dancing  one  of  the  new  tangoes  in  which  she  must 
sway  back  into  his  arms,  she  knew  when  she  closed  her  eyes 
her  pulse  had  beaten  so  rapidly  she  feared  he  must  hear  it. 
At  another  time  .  .  .  but  there  were  numberless  others,  each 
emotion  killed  before  it  could  bud,  either  by  determined  re- 
solve to  remember  the  poppy  girl  or  because  she  must  use 
all  her  wits  to  beat  him  at  his  game.  It  was  not  strange  she 
hadn't  suspected  it  before;  but  it  was  the  simple  explanation 
of  why,  when  Sturtevant  hit  the  toboggan,  she  had  striven 
with  him,  begged  him  to  discontinue  gambling.  "Say  you  love 
me,  then,"  he  would  return,  fiercely.  But  there  he  was  up 
to  old  tricks  again  and  she  must  defend  herself.  And,  then, 
when  he  had  disappeared,  leaving  no  word,  she  had  moped, 
had  desired  to  be  alone,  to  weep  in  secret.  She  had  told 
herself  with  many  stamps  of  the  foot  that  she  was  low- 
spirited,  needed  a  change — any  explanation  save  the  obvious 
one.  So  that  was  why  she  was  not  thinking  about  money. 
Those  who  know  womenkind,  therefore,  will  not  wonder  at 
her  first  words  to  him : 

"Ethel,  tell  him  how  I  happened  to  be  here  to-night  ?"  With 
that  remarkable  thing  called,  in  women,  instinct,  she  knew 
anything  might  be  forgiven  that  had  not  to  do  with  other 
men.  "Tell  him,  Ethel,  tell  him,"  she  insisted  feverishly. 

Ethel's  mind  left  money  and,  swiftly,  did  the  right  thing 
by  the  same  incomprehensible  process:  "Why,  this  is  my 
party,  Dyke,"  she  explained.  "Milly  won't  go  anywhere. 
She's  like  she  used  to  be  before  you  met  her.  So  I  happened 
to  have  business  here.  Oh,  yes,"  she  broke  off  to  be  defiant, 
"I  am  waiting  for  the  same  reason  you  are,  Dyke.  But  she 
isn't.  I  just  'phoned  her  I  was  lonely — to  come  have  supper 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  371 

while  I  waited.    She  hasn't  been  out  with  anybody  since  you 
disappeared.    You  needn't  glare  so :  she  hasn't." 

Curiously — Dyke  could  never  have  explained  why — half 
the  horror  of  the  situation  left  him.  Milly  had  "steered"  him, 
yes ;  but  that  lost  most  of  its  first  shock  now  he  was  of  her 
world,  no  longer  an  outsider,  and  realized  how  bitterly  simple 
it  was  to  descend  to  such  practices  when  money  was  needed. 
He  had  been  a  beast  to  those  other  girls.  So  Milly  had  known 
of  it — no  wonder  she  hadn't  believed  him,  poor  kid,  no  won- 
der !  But — oh  the  pity  of  it — if  she  only  had  believed ! 

"Milly,  I  did  love  you,"  he  choked,  winking  hard  to  keep 
his  eyes  clear. 

"Did?"  she  asked,  dully. 

"Do.  Always  shall,  but," — hopelessly — "what's  the  use 
now?  I  haven't  a  nickel.  Not  a  nickel.  Every  red  cent  is 
gone!  We  always  get  it,  don't  we?" 

Milly's  hand  slipped  into  his.  "Oh,  Dyke,"  she  said.  He 
stared  at  her,  unbelievingly.  Ethel  arose,  swiftly,  and  de- 
parted. Milly  was  crying.  "Oh,  Dyke,  Dyke,  Dyke!"  she 
wept.  "I'm  so  sorry.  But  was  it  my  fault,  was  it,  was  it?" 

And,  then,  with  sudden  ferocity: 

"I  won't  have  you  stopping  here,  waiting  for  Harvey  Gold. 
I've  got  money,  your  money;  you  don't  need  to  do  anything 
like  that.  I  won't  let  you.  You  come  with  'me,  come  right 
away.  I  won't  have  you  here." 

She  even  forgot  to  say  good-night  to  Ethel.  In  the  taxi- 
cab,  she  put  both  arms  around  him  and  cried  all  the  way  to 
her  apartment ;  but  somehow,  both  were  strangely  happy.  At 
the  door  of  her  apartment,  when  he  hesitated,  she  clung  to 
him: 

"Don't  leave  me,  Dyke;  don't  ever,  ever  leave  me 
again.  .  .  ." 


372  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


IN  the  varieties,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sturtevant  have  achieved 
much  success  with  their  little  playlet,  "At  the  Foot  of 
the  Moon-Path,"  writen  by  Dyke  himself,  after  Milly  had 
urged  that  in  vaudeville  only  could  they  both  work  with- 
out enforced  separations,  or  idleness  for  either,  and  after 
he  had  condemned  as  too  ridiculous  all  the  "sketches"  and 
levers  de  rideaux  submitted.  Hers  had  been  one  eye  that 
had  seen  the  patent  dissatisfaction  of  variety's  audiences  with 
cheap  playlets,  "house"  scenery  and  borrowed  props.  A  high- 
priced  scenic  artist  had  been  told  "expense  was  no  object,"  and 
they  carried  a  special  electrician  for  their  light  effects.  Their 
wisdom  was  confirmed  each  night  for  their  "opening"  always 
got  a  "hand." 

Milly  wears  gowns  especially  designed  and  executed  by  an 
atelier — no  less — as  do  the  other  women  of  the  company. 
Dyke  sees  to  it  that  the  men's  dress-clothes  are  cut  after  his 
own  pattern;  and  while,  of  course,  low-salaried  actors  cannot 
be  expected  to  look  like  him — to  the  dress-coat  born — still, 
the  whole  affair  gives  an  excellent  simulation  of  an  incident 
that  might  have  happened  to  "smart"  people  in  surroundings 
a  la  mode.  And  how  the  bourgeois  soul  hungers  for  such 
glimpses!  How  useful  the  language  learned,  to  parrot  to 
others,  the  hints  on  what  the  "real  sort"  wear.  The  patrons 
of  the  circuits  look  forward  eagerly  to  the  return,  each  year, 
of  those  headliners,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dyke  Sturtevant. 

But  Dyke,  off  the  stage,  drops  all  the  manners  of  aris- 
tocracy as  delineated  on.  He  takes  an  odd  pleasure  in  meeting 
the  "rough-necks"  of  the  profession  on  an  equal  footing,  and 
in  "wise-cracking  stuff"  he  excels  them  all.  Abysmal  is  his 
contempt  for  the  rich. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  often  says,  "they  don't  know  anything 


BIRDS  WIIO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  373 

about  life.  How  can  they,  with  an  army  camping  on  their 
door-steps  from  birth,  trying  to  get  their  dough  away?  The 
unluckiest  bunch  in  the  world,  I  tell  you.  And  they  never 
get  wise  unless  they're  taken  for  the  'works'  like  I  was." 
"Oh  hush,  Dyke,"  Milly  will  say.  And  to  the  listener: 
"Isn't  he  awful?"  And  she  kisses  him  to  prove  it. 


IV.  THE  PALACE  OF  WISDOM 

y*./VF  great  truth  is  half  a  lie:  its  falsity  no  less  than 
>nf  its  truth  proving  its  greatness.  So,  if  we  say:  "it  is 
•*  •*•  not  MORALS  but  MEN,"  we  should  be  right;  but, 
unfortunately,  we  are  not  wrong  when  we  say  it  is  not  MEN 
but  MORALS.  Thus,  when  the  great  William  Blake  wrote: 
"The  Road  of  Excess  leads  to  the  Palace  of  Wisdom,"  he  was 
an  angel  voicing  a  divine  truth;  but  (to  continue  to  borrow, 
momentarily,  the  style  of  G.  K.  C.)  he  was  also  a  devil 
uttering  a  damnable  lie. 

The  story  of  Anson  Eagle  and  his  shadow,  Asa  Winthrop, 
proves  both  contentions. 


BLAKE  also  wrote:  "If  the  fool  would  persist  in  his  folly 
he  would  become  wise."  But  here  he  was  undoubtedly  all 
wrong.  Had  he  said:  "If  the  wise  man  persists  in  folly  he 
will  become  wiser,"  he  would  have  summed  up  to  the  case  of 
H.  Anson  Eagle:  but  Blake  referred  to  such  men  as  Asa 
Winthrop,  and  Asa,  far  from  becoming  wise,  became  a  greater 
fool;  although  to  begin  with  he  was  not  any  more  of  a  fool 
than  Eagle  was.  Winthrop  had  the  same  ambitions,  aspira- 
tions and  dreams  of  pleasure,  but  he  lacked  Eagle's  self- 
possession:  as  some  would  say,  wrongly,  his  conceit.  Eagle 
never  forgot  he  had  the  future  to  consider;  never  put  both 
hands  to  the  cup  and  drained  it.  He  always  saved  some  for 
to-morrow,  yet  to  associate  prudence  with  his  romantic  per- 
sonality is  to  invite  ridicule. 

,874 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  375 

The  world  is  divided  into  two  classes:  the  first  do  as 
they  think  fit,  regardless  of  others'  opinions;  the  second  take 
their  opinions  ready  made,  and  sin  in  secret,  but  are  less  the 
slaves  of  the  first  class  than  of  their  own  cowardice.  But 
the  first  class  is  not  wholly  admirable ;  a  murderer  may  belong 
to  it  as  much  as  a  saint.  To  be  regardless  of  the  world's 
opinions  is  not  always  to  be  right,  and  Asa  Winthrop  was 
seldom  right.  He  was  merely  in  rebellion,  and  was  never 
quite  sure  what  he  was  rebelling  about.  He  stumbled  through 
a  militant  boyhood,  sullen  and  stubborn,  the  despair  of 
parents  and  teachers  and  equally  unadmired  by  boys.  While 
his  character  was  forming  at  college,  he  heard  of  Anson 
Eagle,  and  that  young  gentleman  seemed  to  his  mind  to  be 
himself  with  greater  privileges.  So,  as  he  was  too  wise  to 
worship  God,  he  worshiped  a  man,  reading  eagerly  of  Eagle's 
exploits  and,  later,  endeavoring  anxiously  to  insinuate  himself 
into  that  set  wherein  Eagle  moved. 

There  are  some  writers  who,  like  Byron,  begin  to  in- 
fluence their  age  long  before  their  writings  are  sufficiently 
sophisticated  to  influence  anybody.  Eagle  was  such  a  one: 
a  newspaper  hero.  Anson  Eagle  broke  into  Associated  Press 
dispatches  before  passing  his  first  decade,  when,  as  the  leader 
of  a  band  organized  along  the  broad,  free  lines  of  the  half- 
dime  train-robbers  series,  he  ended  in  the  Juvenile  Court, 
and  convulsed  a  continent  with  his  fearless  confessions,  taking 
all  blame  upon  himself  and  bidding  the  judge  be  indulgent 
with  his  "boys."  After  that  his  life  could  be  read  in  the 
daily  press:  no  incident  too  small  to  chronicle:  Anson  Eagle 
in  school  fighting  the  bully  and  pinning  his  hand  to  a  desk 
with  a  pack-knife;  his  expulsion;  his  enlistment  in  '98  and 
his  disobedience  of  orders  which  brought  him  a  court-martial 
for  insubordination  and  later,  a  medal  for  bravery;  his  ad- 
ventures as  an  officer  of  the  Philippine  Constabulary  (mostly 
lies)  ;  his  exploits  against  smugglers  as  an  officer  of  the 


376  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Philippine  customs  (greater  lies,  still).  A  parcel  of  extrava- 
gant stories  were  printed,  and  when  Eagle  returned  to  the 
States  he  found  women  ready  to  idolize  him. 

Men  hated  him — they  always  hate  the  favorites  of  women ; 
and  Eagle  encouraged  their  hatred,  for  he  despised  them.  A 
picture  of  him  at  that  time  shows  a  slim,  upstanding  youth 
with  a  fine  forehead  and  eyes,  reckless  lips,  a  sneering  tilt 
to  his  nose.  His  clothes  were  London  made:  of  soft,  costly 
materials,  and  form-fitting.  He  wore  soft  collars  o  -ilk  .held 
stiff  by  concealed  celluloid  strips,  and  neckties  in  golds,  greens 
and  crimsons.  One  would  have  turned  again  to  view  him 
if  only  for  his  attire,  contrasting  so  vividly  with  the  dull, 
drab,  formless  American  clothes  of  yesterday.  Then,  too,  he 
seemed  just  to  have  bathed  and  brushed  his  shining  hair: 
another  contrast. 

II 

WINTHROP  first  saw  Eagle  in  the  flesh  one  Saturday  night 
in  Sydenham's,  that  great,  gilt  Longacre  restaurant.  Eagle, 
at  that  time,  had  had  his  first  success  as  a  writer,  due  almost 
altogether  to  the  picturesque  topics  he  wrote  about  rather 
than  any  real  literary  worth;  although  even  then  his  hasty, 
unpolished  style  showed  promise.  But  Winthrop  saw  the 
man  in  the  stories  and  thought  them  masterpieces.  Now  that 
he  saw  the  man  himself,  he  was  not  disappointed:  Eagle 
was  what  the  pictures  of  magazine  heroes  strive  to  be.  Op- 
posite him  at  table  was  a  widely  photographed  beauty  of  the 
stage  to  whom  he  listened,  casually,  as  one  whose  mind 
wanders  afar. 

"Waiter,"  said  Winthrop,  "what  is  that  gentleman  doing?" 
Eagle  had  placed  a  lump  of  sugar  upon  a  pierced  spoon  and 
was  carefully  saturating  it  with  water,  a  drop  at  a  time.  "Ab- 
sinthe frangaise,"  returned  the  waiter.  "Absinthe  drip." 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  377 

"Fetch  me  some,"  said  Winthrop.  The  waiter  brought  Pernod 
Fils,  a  carafe,  sugar,  a  spoon,  and  instructed  him.  Winthrop 
disliked  the  paregoric  taste  but,  seeing  that  Eagle  encored 
his,  did  likewise.  Then  came  soft,  reposeful  thoughts,  and, 
as  he  sat,  languidly,  he  saw  his  destiny  on  the  job  working 
out  his  life  to  a  satisfactory,  even  thrilling,  conclusion.  Words 
leaped  to  lips  hitherto,  restrained;  those  whom  he  met  that 
night  found  him  a  boon  companion.  Some  old  acquaintances 
femarV-  Jl  upon  his  astonishing  improvement.  A  celebrated 
person  did  him  the  honor  of  listening  attentively  to  his  revo- 
lutionary views  upon  sex. 

The  next  night  he  took  absinthe  again,  and  continued  for 
more  than  a  year,  until  it  was  not  a  couple  but  a  dozen  a  day. 
By  the  time  he  saw  Eagle  again  it  had  begun  to  tell  on  Win- 
throp; his  complexion  was  pasty,  his  eyes  dull  when  not 
drinking;  he  ate  scarcely  enough  to  keep  alive.  All  this  he 
attributed  to  anything  rather  than  the  absinthe;  he  invented 
imaginary  hereditary  weaknesses  and  diseases.  And,  if  any 
claimed  absinthe  was  hurting  his  work,  he  would  flash  upon 
them  any  one  of  half  a  dozen  short  stories  by  Eagle.  Eagle's 
work  was  improving:  his  style  was  less  hurried,  more  musical, 
his  subjects  less  bizarre,  more  probable,  nearer  life.  "Don't 
look  like  it  hurts  his  work,  does  it?"  Winthrop  would  ask 
triumphantly.  "And  he  takes  it,  one  right  after  another." 
Sometimes  he  exhibited,  more  modestly,  some  newspaper 
"story"  of  his  own  written  under  the  same  influence.  To 
balance  its  temporary  felicity  of  expression  his  city  editor 
could  have  shown  you  many  written  in  dull,  crabbed  English, 
half  the  facts  uninvestigated,  as  was  plainly  shown  by  numer- 
ous instances  of  "it  is  said,"  "it  is  rumored,"  and  "we  hear 
from  good  authority." 

It  was  on  the  night  of  his  discharge  from  the  Star  that 
he  saw  Anson  Eagle,  apparently  unchanged  since  the  year 
before:  still  clear  of  skin  and  eye,  faintly  ruddy  of  cheek, 


378  BIRDS  OF  PRJEY 

erect,  springy.  Winthrop  rejoiced;  his  own  hereditary  afflic- 
tions were  facts  then,  else  why  was  Eagle  unaffected?  He 
was  not  even  careless  of  his  dress:  his  pleated  linen  shirt, 
double  cuffs  and  soft  collar  were  as  immaculate  as  his  polished 
ringer  nails,  his  mane  of  black  hair  as  shining  from  much 
brushing  as  ever.  He  swung  a  stick  and  whistled  as  he 
walked.  Winthrop,  made  bold  by  a  recent  drink,  hurried 
after  and  accosted  him ;  and  Eagle,  rinding  his  eager  disciple- 
ship  pleasing,  consented  to  an  adjournment  to  a  nearby  bar. 
He  ordered  lemon  seltzer.  Winthrop,  amazed  and  hurt,  mixed 
his  absinthe  silently. 

"You  drink  that  stuff?"  asked  Eagle.  "Cut  it  out,  my 
boy;  it's  rotten."  Winthrop  could  restrain  himself  no  longer. 
"But  I  saw  you — "  he  began.  "Experience — simply  experi- 
ence," returned  Eagle.  "How  else  can  you  learn?  Absinthe 
helped  me,  and  I  quit  it  before  it  could  hurt  me."  "And  you 
don't  drink  anything?"  asked  Winthrop.  Eagle  winked. 
"I've  found  something  that  makes  that  look  like  a  two-spot," 
he  said.  "No,  I  never  drink  any  more.  The  two  things  don't 
go  together." 

"What  two  things?"  asked  Winthrop.  "Drink,"  returned 
Eagle,  "and" — he  winked  again — "something  else.  Look 
here,"  he  said,  "I'll  show  you  if  you  like.  You" — he  surveyed 
the  reporter,  compassionately — "look  like  you're  in  a  bad  way 
from  that  rotten  stuff.  Don't  touch  it;  come  along  with  me." 

Outside  he  hailed  a  hansom  and  gave  an  address  in  the 
upper  forties.  Winthrop  thrilled.  At  last  he  was  intimate 
with  his  hero.  He  looked  anxiously  to  be  sure  the  hero  had 
no  flaws;  but,  from  his  shining  hair  to  his  shining  boots, 
Eagle  was  scrupulously  immaculate  and  smartly  groomed. 
His  slender  figure,  too,  his  curiously  illumined,  intelligent 
eyes,  and  his  flow  of  satirical,  iconoclastic  conversation  made 
him  more  Winthrop's  king  than  ever:  whatever  he  did  was 
right. 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  379 

He  had  not  explained  where  they  were  going  nor  what 
they  would  do  there.  "Just  keep  your  mouth  shut  and  do 
what  I  do,"  he  said,  "and  nobody'll  know  you're  green."  The 
car  stopped  before  a  dark  house  in  a  dark  crosstown  block. 
Eagle  pushed  sharply  three  times  the  electric  button  beside 
the  basement  door.  A  Chinese  opened  the  inner  door,  pro- 
tected by  an  outer  grill  of  ironwork,  recognized  Eagle,  but 
hesitated  at  the  sight  of  Winthrop.  "Him  all  belong  ploper," 
said  Eagle;  "he  puff  with  Hip  Sing  Tong  men  Dupont  Street 
long  time.  My  fliend."  The  Chinese  grunted  and  passed 
them.  Eagle  led  the  way  along  a  basement  hall  divided  by 
wooden  compartments  into  little  numbered  rooms  like  bath- 
houses. An  odorous  smoke  hung  heavy  over  them  all.  "No 
private  rooms  for  us,"  said  Eagle;  "too  much  fun  in  the  big 
one." 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  was  a  massive  door  with  a 
Judas  hole,  the  slide  of  which  went  down  at  his  knock.  "Hello, 
Kid,"  said  somebody,  and  admitted  them.  "The  Four  Hun- 
dred Kid,"  explained  the  somebody  to  another  man  who 
stood  near,  "Harry  the  Bee."  Winthrop  recognized  in  the 
man  introduced  the  name  of  a  notorious  burglar,  but  Eagle 
shook  hands,  well  pleased.  He  had  forgotten  Winthrop's 
name,  so  he  presented  him  as  "Jim  Wilson,"  by  which  the 
underworld  was  to  know  Winthrop  well.  There  were  many 
others  in  the  room  besides  the  burglar  and  the  doorman;  a 
steady  hum  of  conversation  arose  from  them,  as  they  lay,  in 
couples,  one  on  each  side  of  a  little  lamp,  a  long  bamboo 
pipe  passing  from  one  to  the  other.  Each  couple  had  a  bunk, 
the  bunks  being  built  against  the  wall  in  tiers,  upper  and 
lower,  like  a  Pullman  sleeping  car,  but  wider.  Sometimes 
three  or  even  four  lay  on  one  bunk,  each  head  pillowed  on 
the  hip  of  him,  or  her,  above  him.  The  one  on  the  upper 
right-hand  side  was  the  "cook:"  scraping  chocolate-colored 
stuff  from  a  playing  card,  toasting  it  over  the  flame  of  the 


880  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

cottonseed  oil  lamps,  kneading  it  on  the  clay  pipebowl,  then 
breaking  it  into  little  pills,  each  one  being  affixed  to  the  bowl 
and  drawn  through  it  in  the  form  of  smoke.  Winthrop, 
knowing  this  was  opium,  kept  back  a  shudder  with  difficulty. 

An  individual  in  felt  slippers  and  cotton- wadded  pajamas 
arranged  their  bunk,  put  down  the  tray  holding  the  lighted 
lamp,  and  motioned  them  to  the  wall  side.  Winthrop  choked 
over  the  first  "pill"  cooked  for  him,  burning  it,  much  to  the 
"cook's"  disgust;  over  the  second,  too:  but  with  the  others 
he  was  more  successful,  and,  when  he  had  cleansed  his  mouth 
of  the  taste  by  eating  sliced  oranges,  lay  back  in  a  condition 
of  joyous  repose.  He  had  neither  dreams  nor  hallucinations ; 
instead,  he  was  extraordinarily  sane;  his  body  drugged,  his 
mind  seemed  released  from  a  clog  and  soared  into  immensity 
to  meet  Eagle's.  The  two  fell  into  a  metaphysical  discussion, 
during  which  Winthrop  found  words  to  express  all  his  doubts 
and  fears  and,  in  glad  surprise,  solutions,  explanations.  He 
felt  an  immense  superiority  to  that  dull  workaday  world  that 
knew  nothing  of  life's  great  secrets.  It  was  as  though,  with 
Eagle,  he  lay  like  a  god  on  a  cloud,  half  pitying,  half  con- 
temptuous of  this  sorry  planet.  Suddenly  he  realized  why 
he  had  never  got  on  with  people:  he  was  not  of  their  kind; 
he  was  a  Superman.  Now,  he  knew,  it  was  beneath  him  to 
mingle  with  their  petty  hates  and  strivings.  Eternity  was  too 
near.  Having  ceased  to  care  for  the  good  will  of  these  people, 
a  dozen  brilliant  schemes  came  to  his  head  by  which  he  might 
outgeneral  them  and,  through  their  stupidities,  become  rich. 
But  he  scorned  to  do  so:  perhaps  .  .  .  some  day  .  .  .  maybe 
...  if  he  felt  like  it  ... 

Eagle,  meanwhile,  had  closed  his  eyes  and  would  speak 
no  more.  He  dealt  in  no  vague  generalities.  He  was  using 
his  heightened  faculties  to  work  out  some  connected  thoughts 
that  would  make  a  story.  Presently  he  rose,  and  hastened 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  381 

home  to  write  it  before  the  sleepiness  of  the  drugged  should 
descend  upon  him. 

But  Winthrop  still  lay  dreaming  of  a  greatness  he  would 
never  do  anything  to  achieve. 


Ill 

EAGLE  encouraged  Winthrop  to  write,  and,  as  he  must 
do  something,  he  turned  out  some  pretentious  carelessly 
written  impossibilities  good  only  for  the  cheaper  grade  of 
fiction  magazines.  To  live  decently  by  such  work,  he  must 
produce  in  prodigious  quantities,  and  this  he  was  unwilling 
to  do  when  he  could  lie  in  Sam  Toy's  big  room  dreaming  or 
listening  to  amusing  or  interesting  people.  Sam  Toy's  was 
the  inner  heart  of  the  city.  Its  frequenters  knew  the  truth 
about  everything :  how  millionaire  Banks  had  really  died ;  what 
the  wife  of  young  Edgar  Pynsent,  3rd,  had  been  before  he 
married  her;  how  the  King  of  the  Street  had  been  fleeced 
at  cards;  what  really  happened  behind  Fifth  Avenue  doors, 
Broadway  stage  entrances  and  Wall  Street  cashiers'  cages. 
These  frequenters  regarded  life  frankly  as  a  battle;  and  here 
was  their  only  bivouac.  Not  only  crooks  came:  "burglars," 
"wire  men,"  "match  men,"  "lemon  men" — the  line  was  drawn 
at  pickpockets  and  cadets — but  famous  "square"  people:  a 
"star"  whose  name  glittered  on  Broadway,  once  an  A.  D.  T. 
messenger;  a  theatrical  magnate  formerly  a  newsboy;  the 
wife  of  a  trust  official,  an  ex-chorus  girl;  others,  well  known 
in  the  upper  world.  But  here  no  attempt  was  made  to  rob 
or  defraud  them — this  was  a  common  refuge.  A  curious  free- 
masonry existed  among  its  frequenters;  the  "star,"  the  mag- 
nate and  the  erstwhile  chorus  girl  took  the  same  pleasure  in 
telling  the  truth  about  themselves  as  do  peasants  at  con- 
fession. 


382  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Eagle  drank  in  all  details  eagerly — he  would  never  talk 
if  he  could  listen;  and  so  the  explanation  of  many  world- 
famous  mysteries  became  his.  He  found  that  he  need  be 
ashamed  no  longer  of  the  double  dealings  to  which  he  had 
been  forced,  to  raise  himself  from  poverty.  Under  the 
opium's  lulling  influence,  his  own  story  was  repeated  a  hun- 
dred times,  with  only  dates  and  names  different.  It  was 
another  strand  in  his  philisophy  of  life.  He  would  lie  very 
still  and  try  to  connect  it  with  others  .  .  .  never  mind;  it 
would  come  some  day.  A  pretty  show-girl,  entering,  yawning 
over  the  memory  of  a  supper-party  with  rich  bankers,  would 
exhibit  a  fifty-dollar  bill  such  as  each  girl  had  found  under 
her  plate.  And  some  banker,  probably,  had  a  sore  heart 
because  she  would  not  let  him  escort  her  home.  .  .  .  That 
was  life.  He  strove  to  understand  it.  ...  On  another  side 
of  him  was  a  quiet-voiced  young  fellow  who  had  served  three 
years  for  stealing  a  watch ;  while,  down  in  Wall  Street  to-day, 
the  promoters  of  worthless  mining-stock  or  building-lots 
could  steal  hundreds  of  thousands  of  the  savings  of  shop-girls 
and  washerwomen  and  never  do  a  day.  Life  again.  Why? 
Could  one  ever  understand  it?  ...  But  sometimes  he  had 
a  gleam,  and  hurried  home  to  write  it  down. 

People  were  asking  themselves  the  same  questions  all  over 
America.  "Rotten  colonel,  rotten  regiment,"  say  army  men; 
and  as  money  colonels  were  thieves,  thievery  had  not  come 
to  be  regarded  either  lightly,  or  as  retaliation  or  defense. 
It  seemed  only  the  latter  to  the  indignant  Winthrop,  writing 
his  daily  thousands  of  worthless  words  to  please  haberdashers 
and  milkmen:  words  that  ignored  all  great  realities  and  pre- 
tended America  was  the  greatest  country  on  earth  and  Ameri- 
cans the  cleverest,  noblest,  bravest  and  most  magnanimous. 
Winthrop's  heart  sickened  at  the  task,  but  he  never  thought 
to  aspire  to  a  style  in  which  he  could  disguise  the  truth,  as 
Eagle  did.  So  he  waded  on  through  his  morass  of  sentimen- 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  383 

tality  and  spreadeagleism :  and,  just  as  weak  people  read  his 
stories  to  drug  themselves  into  unconsciousness  of  actual  evil, 
so  Winthrop  sought  a  stronger  drug.  He  was  a  giant  in 
repose,  a  pigmy  in  action ;  consequently  his  moments  of  repose 
lengthened  at  the  expense  of  his  livelihood.  There  came  a 
time  when  he  was  ashamed  to  ask  Eagle  for  further  loans, 
and  soon  he  had  enlisted  in  the  army  of  actual  rebellion: 
assistant  to  a  "scratch  man,"  a  person  who  raises  small 
checks  and  banknotes.  These  Winthrop  cashed  or  passed, 
his  gentlemanly  appearance  his  invaluable  asset. 

But  it  is  doubtful  whether  or  not  Winthrop  would  ever 
have  had  the  initiative  to  become  a  crook  had  Eagle  not 
already  succumbed  to  temptation.  The  novelist  had  come 
to  a  point  in  his  literary  career  where  he  was  no  longer  willing 
to  compromise ;  where  he  objected  to  deleting  from  his  stories, 
for  the  benefit  of  hypocritical,  squeamish  or  ignorant  readers, 
certain  aspects  of  life  that  seemed  to  him  important,  that  he 
believed  the  public  should  know.  Eagle  thought  he  had  ar- 
rived at  a  solution  of  life's  cruelties  and  was  eager  to  impart 
it  to  the  growing  number  of  those  who  followed  his  work, 
but,  when  he  wrote  along  these  lines,  the  editors  lectured 
him  severely  and  bade  him  return  to  the  style  proven  tried 
and  true.  In  a  series  of  bitterly  denunciatory  scenes,  Eagle 
swore  he  would  write  no  more  until  he  could  write  his  own 
way.  He  flamed  into  open  rebellion  long  before  Winthrop, 
but  for  a  far  different  reason. 

In  his  new  state  of  mind,  he  had  stated  openly  to  his 
friends  at  Sam  Toy's  that  it  was  the  duty  of  anyone  with 
an  ounce  of  spirit  to  urge  the  people  generally  to  play  the 
same  game  the  capitalists  were  playing;  showing  them  the 
anarchy  that  would  result  were  everyone  as  dishonest,  un- 
scrupulous and  heartless  as  they.  There  were  certain  "wire 
men,"  alternating  high-class  blackmailing  with  their  "phony" 
pool-rooms,  who  were  very  happy  to  hear  this  from  Eagle. 


384  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

Often  he  had  helped  them  solve  knotty  problems  by  purely 
psychological  methods  of  reasoning,  and  they  envied  literature 
the  possession  of  his  clear  head  and  unusual  brain.  And, 
although  they  were  practical  business  men,  untouched  by 
anarchical  or  socialistic  sentiments,  they  found  it  convenient 
to  assume  all  the  theories  of  the  indignant  young  sociologist. 
Night  after  night  Eagle  talked  at  Sam  Toy's;  night  after 
night  they  listened  and  approved.  Then,  like  a  flower,  from 
bud  to  blossom,  they  allowed  to  grow  before  him  a  scheme 
which,  in  magnitude,  did  justice  to  Eagle's  desire  for  reprisal : 
a  scheme  that  had  slumbered  in  the  brain  of  "Dude"  Horan 
for  years,  because  it  necessitated  the  cooperation  of  someone 
free  of  police  suspicion,  someone  who  had  access  to  a  higher 
grade  of  society  than  that  in  which  the  Dude's  intimates  were 
comfortable.  Eagle  was  just  the  man. 

It  was  not  a  pretty  scheme,  nor  in  the  least  romantic,  so 
its  details  shall  not  be  given  here;  but  it  was  masterly:  its 
conclusion  being  that  a  certain  power  in  the  Street  was  to 
find  himself  in  a  cellar,  there  to  remain  for  ransom — or  so 
they  told  Eagle.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  tribute  exacted, 
the  hostage  was  to  be  eliminated  to  avoid  the  chance  of 
speedy  retribution  once  he*  was  free.  .  .  .  Such  bloodthirsti- 
ness  in  men  is  awakened  only  for  adequate  reasons ;  the  crook 
is  the  most  sentimental  of  men,  and  that  very  sentimentality 
had  been  outraged  in  this  case:  babies  had  died  for  want  of 
the  ice  that  would  have  been  theirs  had  not  "he"  raised  the 
price. 

Eagle  was  the  link  connecting  the  upper  and  under  worlds : 
for  other  accomplices  must  be  obtained:  an  actress,  a  taxi- 
driver,  a  show-girl,  a  hotel  clerk,  a  stenographer — many  more. 
Eagle  obtained  them.  All  went  without  a  hitch  until  the  very 
day,  when  "he"  went  to  play  golf.  Then  the  thunderbolt. 
There  had  been  a  Judas  in  their  midst. 

Eagle,  alone  of  all  the  conspirators,  was  released  on  bail 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  385 

because  at  that  time  he  was  regarded  as  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning;  and,  while  this  state  of  mind  existed  among  the 
district  attorneys,  he  fled  to  France  and  hid  himself  in  the 
heart  of  the  Pyrenees,  his  bondsman,  an  admirer,  giving  per- 
mission. And  for  many  years  the  world  heard  no  more  of 
Anson  Eagle. 

IV 

MEANWHILE  Winthrop  pursued  his  less  spectacular  career. 
Perhaps  all  would  have'  gone  well  enough  had  ambition 
slumbered;  but  Winthrop  had  little  to  do  save  spend  a  few 
hours  in  shops  and  banks,  leaving  more  time  for  Sam  Toy's 
and  his  dreams.  Eagle's  arrest  and  flight  were  triumphs  in 
Winthrop's  eyes;  quotations  from  his  writings  appeared  in 
the  newspapers,  and  those  inclined  to  Socialism  disguised  their 
sympathy  but  thinly,  the  Socialist  organs  openly  approving. 
Two  months  later,  a  trust-promoter's  child  was  kidnaped, 
and  Eagle's  name  was  whispered  as  behind  it.  Romantic 
pictures  of  him  and  his  possible  band,  hiding  somewhere  sub- 
terraneously,  filled  Sunday  supplements.  Winthrop's  heart 
leaped  high  as  he  read  these  fallacious  tales  written  by  highly 
paid  "feature  men"  but  signed  with  the  names  of  well-known 
criminals;  and  he  would  lie  around  the  layout  by  the  hour 
working  out  subtle  schemes  to  achieve  Eagle's  eminence. 
Winthrop  saw  in  him,  at  one  time,  the  soul  of  a  Martin 
Luther  or  a  John  Knox  allied  with  the  exploits  of  a  Francis 
Drake  or  a  Robin  Hood;  but,  worst  of  all,  he  still  saw  Eagle 
only  as  his  own  avatar,  the  man  he  himself  could  be  if  he 
chose  to  exert  himself.  So  he  began  to  talk  brilliantly,  too, 
as  he  had  heard  Eagle  talk,  and  in  that  assembly  of  lawless 
ones  it  was  not  long  before  he  found  followers  for  another 
plot  against  a  plutocrat's  peace.  But  he  was  no  Eagle  for 
advice,  and  he  had  no  Horan  for  execution.  It  was  not 


386  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

*Q| 
necessary  for  a  traitor  to  betray  this  sorry  scheme ;  it  betrayed 

itself  by  slipshod  carelessness. 

Nor,  in  any  way,  did  the  trial  for  conspiracy  of  Winthrop 
and  his  accomplices  resemble  even  slightly  that  of  his  hero's. 
Again  lacking  an  Eagle,  or  even  a  Horan,  to  flavor  it  with 
Sunday-supplement  romance,  it  went  briefly  recorded  as  a 
commonplace  crime;  so  the  judge  was  not  moved  by  public 
opinion  to  consider  charging  the  jury  witry reasonable  doubt; 
and  the  jury  saw  in  the  accused  company  not  possible  cham- 
pions of  the  proletariat  but  ordinary  "blackhanders."  The 
sentences  were  heavy;  and  Winthrop  was  hustled  away  to 
ugly  gray  clothes  and  high  gray  stone  walls. 

V 

AT  that  time,  Eagle,  roughly  clad  but  hale  and  hearty, 
bronzed  and  ruddy,  was  breasting  the  snow  of  the  mountains ; 
and  as  he  climbed  he  sang.  There  was  nothing  about  him  to 
suggest  the  man  of  the  world,  the  boulevardier,  not  even  a 
cynical  droop  of  the  eye.  He  had  lived  in  these  mountains  for 
a  year  now.  As  he  had  listened  to  the  stories  of  criminals' 
lives,  now  he  listened  to  peasants'  tales  of  another  under- 
world, abandoning  himself  to  mystical  fancies.  He  was  as  a 
child  again  among  these  simple  folk.  In  his  little  mountain 
hut,  on  bookshelves  that  he  had  built  himself,  were  the  works 
of  the  master  mystics,  modern  and  medieval.  He  read  now 
with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit,  and  was  astounded  to  find  he 
had  never  really  read  before.  Perhaps,  had  his  money  lasted, 
he  would  not  have  written  again;  but  even  a  simple  life  costs, 
so  he  began  a  novel.  So  long  free  of  civilization's  standards, 
so  long  removed  from  the  taint  of  cities,  his  work  was  as 
that  of  another  man;  and  each  evening  when  he  read  in  the 
dusk  the  work  of  the  day  he  was  amazed.  His  mysticism 
had  crystallized  life,  and  explained  what  had  been  its  incon- 
sistencies; so  he  dealt  no  longer  in  detached  incidents  but  ia 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  387 

& 

those  that  were  the  keys  of  the  mystery.  He  saw  humanity, 
one  great  troubled  giant,  clumsy,  ignorant,  sad  and  helpless, 
reaching  out  with  a  hundred  hands  ever  after  an  ideal  and 
finding  false  ones  to  worship  fiercely.  He  saw  it  in  a  thicket 
of  thorns,  struggling  wildly  to  be  free,  thrashing  out  with  its 
hundred  arms,  not  knowing  that  living  creatures  fell  dead 
from  its  blows.  He  heard  it,  crying,  like  a  lost  child,  upon 
the  Hill  of  Golgotha,  crying  for  God,  its  father,  whom  it  could 
not  find. 

VI 

So  all  that  he  had  sought  to  know  was  revealed  to  himj 
and  the  book,  begun  for  money,  was  finished  for  love.  In  it 
were  men  of  all  kinds  among  whom  his  life  had  been  led; 
he  wrote  them  down  as  he  had  known  them,  but,  also,  he 
looked  into  their  hearts  for  what  had  made  them  so,  and, 
finding  that  those  hearts  were  very  much  as  was  his  own, 
attacked  no  men  but  only  conditions  and  creeds.  His  experi- 
ences had  not  been  wasted :  he  knew  how  one  man  felt  under 
absinthe,  another  under  opium,  a  third  under  the  braggadocio 
influence  of  false  heroism,  a  fourth  under  the  sway  of  sex. 
Suddenly  he  perceived  that  he  had  been  Everyman;  he  was 
no  longer  ashamed  he  had  sinned,  since  he  might  help  a 
million  weaklings  who  never  would  have  found  their  way  to 
the  Delectable  Mountains  had  such  as  he  not  made  maps  of 
gins  and  pitfalls.  He  had  lived  to  save  others;  himself  alone 
he  could  not  save. 

When  the  book  was  finished  and  he  had  stumbled  along 
many  weary  miles  to  send  it  safely  to  his  agent,  starvation 
and  cold  had  not  left  him  the  strength  to  regain  his  mountains, 
and  he  raved  in  delirium,  at  the  foot  of  them,  in  a  kindly 
peasant's  hut.  When  he  recovered,  he  worked  in  the  fields 
and  chopped  wood  in  return  for  his  host's  attendance  during 
his  illness. 


388  BIRDS  OF  PREY 


VII 

His  book  was  refused  by  all  the  leading  London  publishers  ; 
finally,  in  despair,  his  literary  agent  gave  it  to  a  young  disciple 
of  William  Morris  who  wanted  text  which  would  fit  in  with 
the  medieval  beauty  of  his  specially  designed  fonts  and 
Preraphaelite  illustrations.  The  fact  that  it  sold  by  subscrip- 
tion only,  at  a  guinea  the  volume,  compelled  the  press  to  take 
it  seriously.  So  Eagle,  under  his  pseudonym,  got  pages  in 
weekly  periodicals,  double  columns  in  dailies;  and  soon  the 
booksellers  demanded  a  trade-price  edition;  they  were  tired 
of  denying  customers  who  demanded  it.  Philanthropists, 
literary  guilds  and  society  women  made  the  book  the  subject 
of  discussions,  essays  and  debates;  and  Socialists  and  suf- 
fragists used  its  teachings  as  propaganda.  With  the  American 
reprints,  many  editions  were  exhausted,  not  as  many  as  a 
"best  seller,"  to  be  true,  but  sufficient  to  reach  all  the  in- 
telligent people  in  the  English-speaking  world:  less  than  a 
hundred  thousand.  It  was  read  alike  in  the  church  and  the 
disorderly  house;  in  editorial  rooms  and  boarding-schools 
For  it  had  not  been  written  by  one  who  had  bought  his  seat  at 
the  Theater  of  Life  and  therefore  knew  nothing  of  what  hap- 
pens beyond  the  stage  door,  but  by  one  who  had  lived  behind 
the  scenes  ;  and  therefore  it  had  a  message  for  everyone.  In  it 
one  who  understood  might  have  discovered  the  secret  of  the 
difference  between  Eagle  and  Winthrop:  without  knowing  it, 
Eagle  had  been  fighting  for  others  all  his  life,  Winthrop  only 
for  himself. 

VIII 

ONE  day  the  Chinese  at  Sam  Toy's  slammed  the  iron  door 
in  Winthrop's  face.  Since  his  release  from  Sing  Sing,  he 
had  taxed  the  patience  of  its  frequenters.  He  had  not  dared 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  389 

A 

break  laws  again  with  the  menace  of  that  horrible  prison 
life  behind  each  dereliction;  so,  lacking  money,  he  had  slept 
around  any  layout  where  he  happened  to  be,  and  borrowed 
the  money  for  his  food.  Had  he  possessed  a  more  pleasing 
temper,  doubtless,  as  reward  for  running  errands  for  fruit, 
cigarettes  and  reading  matter,  the  good-natured  crooks  and 
their  friends  would  have  supported  him  interminably;  but  his 
opinion  of  his  importance  had  undergone  no  change.  He 
alternated  between  whining  for  loans  and  asserting  his  dignity : 
he  would  compare  himself,  his  birth,  education  and  breeding 
with  those  who  lacked  all  three,  and  he  would  work  himself 
up  into  insensate  rages  against  capitalism  whenever  he  read 
the  newspapers,  annoying  everyone  in  the  room,  for  in  such 
places  they  like  to  lie  quietly,  forgetting  travail  in  perfect 
to-morrows.  He  quarreled  with  everyone,  sneering  at  inno- 
cent boasts  and  discounting  tall  tales,  moreover  suspecting 
insults  in  every  unintentional  ambiguity.  So  finally  Sam  Toy 
had  tired  of  him;  his  door  never  opened  to  Winthrop  again. 

For  some  little  while  the  former  reporter,  suddenly  realiz- 
ing his  degradation,  made  an  earnest  effort  to  take  himself 
in  hand.  He  found  a  former  friend  who  gave  him  a  place 
to  sleep  and  some  cast-off  clothes,  tolerably  presentable;  who 
got  him  work  at  the  City  News  office,  where  assignments  at 
two  dollars  each  are  given  out  twice  a  day.  But  to  suffer 
careless  treatment  at  the  hands  of  people  of  whose  intelli- 
gence he  was  contemptuous,  to  take  their  orders;  to  endure 
the  insults  of  those  in  the  news,  infuriated  with  reporters 
who  distorted  personal  misfortunes  into  spicy  scandal :  all 
this  was  too  much  for  one  who  gave  himself  the  stature  of  the 
Napoleon  of  his  dreams.  Then,  too,  he  must  often  work 
twelve  hours  for  four  dollars,  in  all  sorts  of  inclement  weather, 
on  nights  freezingly  cold. 

So  he  dropped  out  after  a  few  weeks,  and  tried  to  write 
fiction  again ;  but  the  only  style  he  had  ever  troubled  to 
acquire  was  too  journalistic  for  the  weighty  things  he  wanted 


390  BIRDS  OF  PREY 

to  say;  besides,  he  was  a  monomaniac,  hating  all  prosperous 
people. 

His  money  gave  out ;  he  was  evicted ;  and  sank,  sank,  sank, 
until  he  could  sink  no  lower.  But  he  did  not  realize  how 
low  it  was:  he  knew  only  that  he  ate,  smoked  and  did  not 
work.  .  .  .  Then,  one  day,  after  many  months  of  slothful 
living  in  an  overheated  Tenderloin  apartment,  seldom  leaving 
the  bunk,  a  bitter  quarrel,  which  had  waged  for  weeks  be- 
tween him  and  his  companion,  had  its  culmination  in  a  fallen 
body  on  the  floor,  a  stream  of  blood  across  its  forehead.  .  .  . 

Winthrop  fled  into  the  snowy  streets;  he  shivered  at  the 
sight  of  the  nearest  policeman.  A  vision  came  of  gray  stone 
walls,  horrible  scratchy  gray  suits,  iron  bars  between  him  and 
the  sun.  ...  At  any  time  a  heavy  hand  might  fall  on  his 
shoulder;  in  another  day,  at  most,  someone  would  be  sure 
to  force  open  the  door  of  the  apartment  and  see  what  lay 
there  so  quietly. 

He  hurriedly  registered  at  the  nearest  hotel,  a  cheap  one. 
Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  not  be  death  back 
there.  .  .  .  He  was  elated — until  his  gaze  met  the  greasy 
wallpaper  of  the  hotel  bedroom,  his  nose  became  conscious 
of  the  smelly  mattress — and  outside  the  snow  was  falling.  .  .  . 
His  choice  lay  between  those  cold  streets,  the  only  place  he 
could  earn  a  living — for  he  knew  now  he  was  fit  to  be  an 
underpaid  reporter  or  nothing;  and  in  reward  for  his  labors 
just  such  a  room  as  this — this  the  end  of  his  dreams  of  honor 
and  power.  Not  even  the  comfort  of  the  flat  he  had  just  left, 
the  leisure,  the  good  food,  to  which  he  could  never  go  back. 
"Oh,  Dolly,  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it!"  he  sobbed  wildly.  But 
he  was  not  sobbing  for  the  girl  but  for  himself:  her  death 
did  not  hang  heavy  on  his  soul — only  the  punishment  it  brought 
him.  Always  it  was  Winthrop,  the  hero  of  the  great  play 
in  the  Theater  of  Life;  and  because  the  universe  would  not 
revolve  about  him,  how  sorry  was  the  universe!  .  .  .  Always 
himself. 


BIRDS  WHO  BUILT  NEW  NESTS  391 


IX 

UP  the  mountains  toiled  a  party  of  pilgrims  bearing  a 
pardon  to  Anson  Eagle.  Powerful  people  had  read  his  book, 
and  their  glowing  appreciation  had  encouraged  his  agent  to 
confide  to  some  the  author's  secret.  They  would  see  it  was 
all  a  mistake,  and  should  not  such  a  stain  be  removed  from 
his  name  so  that  he  could  return  to  his  own  country  and  be 
honored,  feted,  an  ornament  at  rich  women's  house  parties 
and  dinners,  a  newspaper  hero  once  more?  It  had  not  been 
necessary  to  bring  much  pressure  to  bear  on  the  District 
Attorney  after  he,  too,  had  read  the  book.  "If  the  gentleman 
will  return  and  plead  'guilty' — a  suspended  sentence  can  be 
arranged."  It  was  a  nominal  term  for  absolute  pardon,  he 
wrote  almost  apologetically.  But  as  a  matter  of  form  .  .  . 

They  had  journeyed  hastily  to  take  him  home,  his  agent, 
his  English  and  American  publishers,  the  special  representa- 
tive of  a  chain  of  sensational  newspapers,  an  Associated 
Press  correspondent  and  a  moving-picture  magnate. 

Eagle  gave  them  bread  and  mountain  cheese  and  milk. 
He  was  surrounded  by  books  and  stacks  of  manuscript,  and 
was  dressed  as  peasants  are.  He  seemed  quite  unaffected  by 
their  praise  and  by  the  prospect  of  his  pardon. 

"No,"  he  said,  "my  books  mustn't  bear  the  handicap  of 
my  name.  They  weren't  written  by  Anson  Eagle.  Their 
author  was  born  up  here."  He  waved  to  the  mountain  tops 
affectionately.  "Why  should  I  go  to  New  York?  I'd  only 
be  unhappy  there,  surrounded  by  misery  I  can't  prevent,  help- 
less with  anger  at  outrages  I  couldn't  stop.  I'd  be  an  anarchist 
again.  You'll  always  get  the  best  of  me  in  my  books.  Let 
me  stay  here  and  have  a  little  happiness  with  the  best  com- 
panions of  four  thousand  years" — he  nodded  lovingly  toward 
his  books — "and  with  work,  much  work.  Why,  if  I  wrote 
from  now  on  steadily  until  I  died  I  shouldn't  have  written 


392 


BIRDS  OF  PREY 


half  I've  learned  myself  or  a  thousandth  of  what  Someone 
Else  has  taught  me — up  here." 

He  seemed  always  to  speak  of  the  mountains  as  men  speak 
of  beloved  and  sacred  things.     "Thank  God!"  he  finished. 

At  that  same  moment,  Asa  Winthrop  shot  himself  through 
the  heart. 


THE  END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


'Is 

AUG  2  3  2000 

ILF 
WEEK  LOAN 


